


Ship of Dreams

by LicieOIC



Series: The MovieVerse AU's [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Titanic (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Doctor Who, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Edwardian Period, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, Romance, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LicieOIC/pseuds/LicieOIC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Noble, a member of the privileged upper class, is expected to marry a rich French aristocrat to save his family's finances. Everything he's ever known will be challenged when he meets Rose Tyler, a poor but compassionate artist, aboard the doomed Titanic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted to me by Trinity, Larxene, and mostly Callistawolf, who all helped with brainstorming ideas.
> 
> My humblest apologies to everyone involved in the movie this fanfic is based on, "Titanic" 1997 by James Cameron. 
> 
> Notes, to prepare you all for what lies ahead: There is some angst in this fic, but I am telling you right now, there is a HAPPY ENDING. So, read without fear! I read fanfic for the fantasy, fun, and happy, because real life sucks. And so, this fic is a bit different from the original work, IT ENDS HAPPY. Also, there is crack. Not a lot of crack, it falls into the ‘a bit sillier than normal’ category, but it is there.

_April 10th, 1912_

It couldn't have been a more perfect day for a maiden voyage. The sun was shining brightly and not a cloud could be seen in the bright blue sky. Loading was well underway and passengers were boarding smoothly. The docks were crowded with masses of people, some well-wishers, some just wanting to see the massive new ship set sail.

The _Titanic._ It rose mountainously above the water, its buff colored funnels standing against the sky like the pillars of a great temple. Crewmen moved across the brand new deck, dwarfed by the awesome scale of the steamer.

A silver-gray car pulled up as close as it could to the dock until the crowd blocked the way. The people within climbed out with the assistance of the liveried driver, the ladies in long, elegant gowns and large, elaborate hats, the men in well-fitted suits.

"How annoying," said an older woman with greying tawny hair, frowning at the people in the path of the car. Harriet Noble, widowed matriarch of the influential Noble family, who ruled her offspring with an iron will, clearly annoyed that her will didn’t extend to the people swarming around them like ants. "Can't they keep the way clear? I have no idea how he'll turn around..."

"Can't be helped, mother," said a redhead in a fashionable navy walking suit, Harriet’s daughter, Donna. "Suppose we'll just have to leg it with the rest of the normal people." She turned to the dark haired man at her side, Lee McAvoy, and the couple shared a private smile as he kissed her hand, her wedding ring catching the sunlight.

Harriet shuddered. "I reject the notion that we are ‘normal,’ Donna. We are Nobles. Our name carries weight. We shouldn't be expected to fight our way to the walkway like those in steerage!"

"Well, I'm a McAvoy now," Donna said, a glint of pride and a bit of defiance in her eyes. "The rules of the Nobles don't apply to me anymore!" Taking her husband's arm, they made for the first class gangplank.

Harriet rolled her eyes as she moved to oversee the transfer of the luggage. "She says that like she ever listened to me in the first place." She sighed. “Ugh, I’ll be so glad when this honeymoon business is over.”

“We haven’t even left yet, and you’re already wanting to come home!” Donna called over her shoulder. “Honestly, why is she even going?” she said to Lee.

The other man in a brown pinstriped suit was looking at the ship with his left eyebrow quirked. "I don't see why they're all hanging around for," he said, dismissively. "You see one ship, you've seen them all."

"Don't be a stick in the mud, John," said a beautiful young woman with ash blonde hair tucked underneath a large purple hat which matched her dress perfectly. Reinette Poisson, heiress to an enormous family fortune, turned her grey-blue eyes to the massive ocean liner, appreciatively. "The _Titanic_ is special. Largest moving object in the world, so they say." She gave him a smile. “The Ship of Dreams.”

He hummed noncommittally, neither confirming nor denying her implications as he avoided her gaze. She seemed not to notice and took his arm. They followed Donna and Lee, with Harriet hurrying behind a moment later, having delegated the job of directing the porters to Reinette’s personal bodyguard, Harold Saxon, a serious-looking man in a stiff suit with cinnamon colored eyes and short brown hair.

Reinette clung to John’s arm, leaning into him closely and batting her eyelashes. “You’ll protect me from the dirty immigrants, won’t you, angel?”

John frowned at the steerage passengers, lined up inside moveable barricades like cattle, a health officer checking all of their heads for lice. They might be dressed in coarse wool and tweed, but they didn’t look dirty to him. In fact, it appeared that most of them were in what could be considered their Sunday best. Even a third class ticket meant something when it was on board the _Titanic_ , it seemed.

But Reinette didn’t understand any of that, and John knew it. She was descended from French aristocracy and was accustomed to a life of wealth. Something like working for a living and scrimping for enough money for boat passage held no meaning for her. They were simply a hoard of unwashed masses. So, John hummed again, letting her take it as assent if she pleased. It was simply easier.

He gazed up at the tall iron side of the boat, towering seven stories above the wharf. Everyone thought it was a shining beacon of hope. He looked at the black paint and saw the endless abyss that his life was being swallowed by. Reinette gripped his arm ever tighter as they walked through the crowd and up the plank, he gave her a tight, weak smile as he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

The triple steam horns let out a massive blast. It was nearly time to depart.

* * *

The suite of rooms that Reinette had secured for their party were impressive, to say the least. Done in the Empire style, the one John would be occupying had a bedroom that shared a large sitting room with Reinette’s room, a bath and WC suite, and a wardrobe room. Every fabric was lush and new. The suite also boasted a private fifty foot deck, swathed in vines and potted plants. Reinette was currently outside, looking at the water while she chattered and sipped daintily at a glass of orange juice and champagne.

John’s valet, Alonso, was already in the bedroom, putting away John’s things. John stood in the sitting room, looking at the one thing he was pleased by - a trove of paintings Reinette had bought at his request in Paris. There was a waterlily painting by Monet and one of a trio of ballet dancers by Degas, as well as several abstracts by a man named Picasso. No one else had cared for them, but there was something about the odd paintings that drew John in. As if they were from another world. He tried to imagine himself in that sort of landscape… What the people might be like…

“Ugh.”

He startled slightly. Reinette was looking at the painting over his elbow and making a face. He’d been so lost to his daydream, he hadn’t heard her come back into the sitting room.

“How you can stand to look at those things is beyond me,” she said, shaking her head.

“I like them,” he said. “They show imagination. Like being… somewhere fantastical.”

She shrugged, as if the notion didn’t matter. “You’re just going to have to put them somewhere I won’t have to look at them.” She pondered for a brief moment with a finger to her chin. “Like your study. Men always like to have a study, don’t they? Some place to entertain their friends? You can put them there.”

John said nothing, not wanting to acknowledge the reference to them living together. Instead, he picked up the waterlily painting and carried it into his bedroom, placing it on the dresser near the bed, where he could look at it and imagine himself floating amongst those watery flowers… Like Ophelia.

* * *

The next day, with bright sun coming through the high arching windows, John was seated at lunch in the Palm Court restaurant. Despite the lively chatter between his party, the builder of the ship, Mr. Andrews, the owner of it, Mr. Ismay, and a bright, older woman named Sarah Jane Smith, John’s spirit seemed to fall further and further into the depths of the sea. He couldn’t bring himself to concentrate on the conversation, it was all just background noise. When Reinette ordered fish with pear sauce for them both, he suddenly stood and tersely excused himself, ignoring Harriet’s mortified exclamation at his rudeness.

“Hmm,” said Sarah Jane, watching his retreating figure for a moment before looking at Reinette. “He’s certainly abrupt. Are you sure you can handle that, dear?”

“Oh, marriage will settle him down,” said Reinette, as if unconcerned, but the tight grip on her napkin belied her tone. “He just needs a good woman to take him in hand.”

Mr. Andrews choked on his dinner roll and Mr. Ismay patted him on the back. Lee just blushed.

* * *

In the waning light on the aft deck, a young woman with golden blonde hair sat with the sun on her shoulders. She wore a loose shirtwaist and a sturdy gray skirt, which she had hiked up a bit in order to sit cross-legged on the sun chair. She gained a few looks, since the bottom of her cotton petticoat was peeking out near her ankles, but she didn’t care, she wasn’t paying attention. Her hazel eyes were fixed on a man with his daughter who were standing a short distance away.

Cradled in her hands was a leather-bound sketchbook. She sketched the father and child rapidly with quick, sure strokes in charcoal, capturing the moment perfectly. Her friend, a young black woman named Martha, looked over her shoulder and nodded approvingly.

“Beautiful, as always, Rose,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Rose, glancing up with a grin. She tucked a strand of hair that had come loose from her braid behind her ear.

She tilted her head back to stretch her neck, which had become a bit sore after looking down at her sketch for so long, and looked across the well deck. On the upper promenade, a man in a sharply tailored brown suit walked to the railing, clutching it with both hands. Her gaze was drawn to them at once. Long, elegant fingers, sloped knuckles, what looked like broad palms. She couldn’t quite tell the details due to the distance between them, he on his lofty perch and she down below. She wanted to know the shape of his fingernails, whether there was any manly hair peeking out of his cuff near the wrist.

As she watched, he took off his dark brown derby hat and frowned at it as though it was the enemy. Perhaps it was, she thought, as he dragged a hand through his chestnut colored hair, making it stand on end. It was so incongruent among the carefully combed hairstyles of the other men on the deck, but it looked good on him. He had some _really_ great hair. Suddenly, he cast the hat into the air, letting the wind carry it aloft until at last it fell into the sea, the waves making it drift astern. Rose smiled. The man had style all his own and she was utterly captivated by him.

He turned then and looked right down at her, perhaps pulled by the force of her stare. His eyes were impossibly dark. Were they black, or a dark brown? Did they harbor any flecks of gold or red? She couldn’t tell. Even caught staring, she couldn’t look away. The man did, but a moment later, his eyes turned back. Her smile became a full tongue-touched grin and she quirked an eyebrow at him. He remained composed, but a slight twitch of his mouth gave him away. The moment froze in the space between decks as they gazed at one another.

Suddenly, a blonde woman in a yellow and white gown joined him, taking his arm. He shrugged her off. Rose couldn’t make out what they were saying, the wind whipped away their voices, but they were obviously arguing and she thought she caught the word ‘pears’ before he stormed away. The woman followed after him along the A-deck promenade. Rose watched until she could no longer see him. She wondered if she’d ever catch a glimpse of him again. Looking down, she turned to a fresh page and began sketching what she remembered of him.

* * *

Later that night, John sat in his stiff formal tuxedo, letting everyone talk around him. He stared into the middle distance, outwardly perfectly composed, if stiff. Inwardly, wishing he could jump up and run out of the First Class formal dining parlor. Beneath the table, he dug a tiny shrimp fork into his thigh, right above the knee, just so he could feel something other than abject despair.

Because he could see his whole life spread out before him, an endless reflection of the mindless chatter going on. One big revolving carousel of parties and cotillions, brandy and cigars and bloody polo. He felt as though he were standing on the edge of a giant precipice, where wedding rings and shackles and massive country manors with doors and carpets littered the bottom, just as treacherous as sharp rocks. No one to pull him back, no one who would care if he fell.

When the men got up to go to the smoking room, he trailed behind the group and splintered off from them, instead heading for the deck, where the moon looked down from a clear sky. He nodded stiffly to a porter who walked by and went inside. The aft deck looked completely abandoned aside from John.

He moved across the deserted fantail, like a spectre, stopping once he reached the base of the stern flagpole. He held onto it with one arm, staring out at the black water below, bleakly.

Slowly, he grasped the railing, first one hand, then the other. Methodically, he began to climb, moving carefully, turning his body to face outward with his slippery formal shoes on the white-painted gunwale. He clung to the railing with his arms outstretched on either side of him. Leaning out, he could see the enormous lettering of ‘Titanic’ in white against the black of the ship. Sixty feet below that, the gigantic propellers churned the Atlantic ocean into white foam, a ghostly wake trailing off to the horizon.

He leaned out further, his arms straightening, staring down into the abyss as if in a trance. His coat tails flapped in the wind, in time with the Union Jack snapping over his head. His hair whipped out of its combed state, going wild in the gust and standing out and all angles. His ears were filled with the sound of the water below.

“Don’t do it,” a female voice broke through, startling him into leaning back, clutching at the railing with white-knuckled hands.

He whipped his head over his shoulder to see a young blonde woman standing a few feet away. It took him a second to realize that it wasn’t Reinette. Her hazel eyes were soft and compassionate. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

“Stay back!” he warned. His voice held a trace of panic, something he hadn’t actually felt until he saw her there. Now, the numbness receded, leaving only blinding fear, prompting his flight response. At the moment, flight was nearly a literal thing.

She edged closer, reaching an arm out to him. “Here, give me your hand, I’ll pull you back.”

“No!” he exclaimed. “I mean it, you stay away from me, or I’ll let go!”

“No, you won’t,” she said, calmly.

“What?” His eyes narrowed in a sharp glare. “What? What do you mean, I won’t? Who are you to presume to know what I will and will not do? You don’t know anything about me!”

“Look, if you were gonna do it, you’d have done it already,” she said with plain faced reason. She stretched out her hand to him further. “Come on. Take my hand.”

He looked down at her upturned hand, which was starting to look enticing and that was something he didn’t want. Resolutely, he looked away from her. “No. You should leave.”

She sighed. “I can’t. I’m part of events now.” Covering her face briefly with one hand, she groaned. “Are you really gonna jump? Can you give me a mo’ to get out of my skirts and corset first?”

Shocked, he looked back at her. “ _What_?” he repeated.

“Well, if you jump, I’m gonna have to go in after you and if I do it in all this,” she motioned to her layers, “it’ll just drag me down to the bottom.” She shucked her dark blue jacket that obviously didn’t match her outfit, but was thick and looked warm, even if it was patched at the elbows.

“That’s… quite logical,” he said, surprised by her yet again. “You’re fairly smart. Considering.”

She paused in the act of leaning down to unlace her left boot. “Considering what?”

He shrugged slightly. “Well, that you’re female.”

It was her turn to narrow her eyes. “Yeah? I’m considering _pushing_ you.” With an exasperated sigh, she leaned over and started unlacing her boot, clearly still committed to jumping in with him.

“But you’ll be killed if you come in after me,” he said, suddenly feeling a nagging prick of guilt. He could handle offing himself, but he didn’t want this woman on his conscience.

“Possibly,” she said. “Might not.”

“Oh, the fall alone would kill you.”

“It’ll probably hurt,” she conceded. “To be honest, I’m more worried about how cold the water is.”

That brought him up short. He’d thought the fall would kill him, he hadn’t thought about surviving that and having to deal with the water. The reality of what he was trying to do was starting to sink in. Wishing he could let go of the rail to pull on his ear, he asked, trying not to sound too poncy, “Ehm… How cold do you think it is?”

She pulled off the boot, setting it next to her jacket. “Freezing,” she said, bluntly. She considered for a moment, with a slight lift of one shoulder. “Maybe a couple of degrees above. Not like that’ll make a difference.” She began unlacing her right shoe. “You ever been ice skating?”

He furrowed his brow, perplexed by her sudden change in topic. “Yes?”

“I’ve only done it once,” she said. “But that was enough for me. I fell through some thin ice. My friend pulled me out quick enough, but…” She exhaled hard. “It felt like ages. Water _that_ cold… It feels like a thousand knives, stabbing you all over your body, all at once. You can’t breathe, you can’t think… Except for maybe thinking about how much it bloody _hurts_.” She pulled off the other boot and set it next to the first, then straightened and put her hands on her hips. “To be honest, I’m really not anxious to repeat the incident. But like I said, I don’t have a choice.” She smiled at him, her expression open and friendly. “Unless you want to be a really nice bloke and come back over the railing?”

“You’re mad.”

She snorted. “I’m not the one hanging off the back of a ship.” She edged a little closer, as if she was trying to ease up on a spooked horse. “Now, come on. You don’t want to do this. Just give me your hand.”

John looked at this young, possibly mad, woman, staring at her for a long moment. Her eyes were a deep amber, almost glowing in the stern running lights. They were steady on his, full of hope and encouragement. In that moment, they seemed to encompass his whole universe.

“All right,” he said at last. Unfastening one hand from the cold rail, he reached for her. She took his hand firmly in hers.

“I’m Rose Tyler,” she said, tucking her tongue into the corner of her smile.

Perversely, he found himself returning her smile. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Tyler.”

He started to turn. Now that he’d made the decision to live, the height was a bit terrifying. Not that he’d admit it. He attempted to keep his eyes fixed on Rose, rather than the drop, to avoid the sensation of vertigo. Slowly, he brought one foot up to the bottom railing, but with the lack of traction on the bottom of his shiny shoe, it slipped right off, making him lose his balance.

He plunged into nothingness, letting out a terrified, but still very manly, shriek. He barely managed to grab the bottom rung of the railing. Rose was jerked forward, clutching at him desperately, trying to grab him with her other hand.

“I’ve got you! Hang on!” Rose yelled.

“I AM!” he shouted back.

She tried lifting him with all her strength, bracing herself with her foot against the rail. “Blimey, you’re heavy for such a skinny bloke!” she gritted out between her teeth.

“WHAT?” He couldn’t believe she was commenting on his weight, even if she was trying to haul him bodily over the side of a ship. He scrambled for some kind of purchase on the side of the smooth hull. He swung his leg up, but the formal shoe slipped right off again. “BLOODY SHOES!”

“Try to be lighter!” she said, awkwardly grabbing at his arm and anywhere else she could reach, as she pulled and he flailed, trying to think ‘feathery’ thoughts.

Together, John was slowly hauled over the side, falling in a tangled heap to the deck, with John landing slightly on top of Rose. Breathing heavily, he lifted his head to find her face quite close to his. In the wake of the near death experience, adrenaline surging through his system, it seemed like the natural thing to do to cup the back of her head and press his lips to hers.

He felt her startle, but a second later, she melted against him, nipping at his lower lip, which sent a shiver right along his spine. He’d kissed women before, _wellllll_ , mostly they kissed him… But it had never felt like this, shaking him down to his core. He pulled back and angled his head, wanting more, but just as his tongue flicked at her top lip, someone shouted at them, their footsteps clattering on the deck.

A quartermaster hurried over, yelling, “What’s all this?” When he saw the two of them, an obviously posh bloke and a young blonde from steerage, missing her shoes and jacket, his face turned red. He turned his face away, looking everywhere but at them. “Erm, sorry sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. This is hardly proper!”

“Hang on!” Rose cried, indignantly, as John said at the same time, “Now, wait just a minute…” They struggled to get to their feet, John stepping on Rose’s skirt and making her stumble. Eventually, she pushed him off with a frown and stood up on her own.

No sooner were they a proper distance from each other, when none other than Reinette and her bodyguard, Saxon, came climbing down the stairway. John swallowed a groan.

“John! There you are!” she said, clearly irritated. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” She stopped when she noticed Rose standing there and took in her disheveled appearance. Her eyes narrowed to thin blue slits. “Just _what_ is going on here?”

“Reinette, it’s not--” John began.

“I am a modern woman,” Reinette said, clearly trying to keep her temper. “But _this_!” She gestured to Rose, distastefully. “And in _public_? Do you care _nothing_ for my reputation?”

“It’s not like that!” Rose said.

“You be silent!” Reinette snapped. Rose’s mouth fell open in offence, but the other woman was paying her no attention, her eyes were on John. “And you, explain yourself!”

John pulled at his ear and ran a hand through his hair, looking at the deck, his mind whirling as he tried to come up with an explanation that would satisfy Reinette. “It’s… stupid, really. Well, you know how fascinated I am by machinery, so I was leaning over the side to see… to see…” He made a revolving motion with his index finger, the adrenaline was wearing off, making his brain sluggish. “You know, the…” He looked around for help.

“The propellers?” the quartermaster supplied.

“Yes!” he said, jumping on the word and pointing at the man. “The propellers. I was leaning WAY over and I slipped. I would have gone overboard, had Miss Tyler not caught my hand. As it was, she almost went over herself.” He bounced on his toes a bit, resisting the urge to clap his hands together to force some enthusiasm into the moment. “Lucky? I suppose?”

The quartermaster looked at Rose. “Is that the way of it?”

Rose looked at John. He begged her with his eyes not to say what really happened, pleading silently that she would understand.

She cleared her throat and nodded once. “Yeah. That’s pretty much what happened.” She held his gaze for a moment longer as the secret bound them together with tiny little threads.

Reinette huffed in exasperation. “Well, of all the witless things, I am sure I have never heard the like.” She turned to go back. “Come along, John. I would _hope_ you’ve had enough excitement for one night.” She paused. “Oh.” She glanced back at Rose, then looked to Saxon. “Harry, I think a twenty should do it?”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Upset on Rose’s behalf, he straightened his formal jacket, saying tersely, “Is that the going rate for saving the life of one’s fiance? Good to know. You remember how useless I am with money.”

Reinette turned to John, her expression softening minutely. “My angel is displeased.” She looked at Rose again. “What to do?”

He knew what Reinette saw when she looked at Rose - a low-class steerage peasant, unwashed, and probably with horrid manners. Something inside of him clicked and he said, “I have it. Why doesn’t Miss Tyler join us for dinner tomorrow night? She can regale us all with the heroic tale.” He turned to Rose. “How about it?”

She stared straight at him as she said, “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

Reinette’s mouth was tight, but she said, “Good. That’s settled.” She took John’s arm possessively and turned to go, all but dragging him along. “I suppose this will be amusing, if nothing else,” she muttered.

Saxon watched his charge ascend the stairs with John, the quartermaster following after, then turned his gaze on Rose, who seemed to freeze under his hard, dark eyes. “Interesting. How Mr. Noble slipped all of a sudden, yet you still found time to remove your jacket and boots.” They both looked down at the unlaced shoes next to her blue coat. Rose swallowed, but said nothing. “Good night,” he said in a bland tone as he turned to leave.

Rose exhaled slowly and sat down on the deck to put her shoes back on. Thinking better of it, she paused to put her jacket on first. She was utterly freezing.


	2. Chapter 2

A bare hour later, John was just finishing putting on his striped pajamas for the night and was shrugging into his dark blue dressing gown when he caught sight of Reinette standing in the door to his room. She was the picture of elegance in a Japanese gold silk kimono, a touch of lace at her decollate hinting at the frothy concoction of a nightgown she was wearing beneath.

She gave him a soft smile as she entered. “I know you’ve been melancholy, John, though I can’t imagine why.”

From behind her back, she produced a large black velvet jewelry box. John couldn’t find it in him to smile as he took it from her. Another present. He was already feeling numb to the amount of money she threw everywhere.

“I was intending to save this for our engagement gala next week,” she said, with a hint of reprimand in her tone, as if it were his fault that she was required to give it to him now and spoil the ‘unveiling’ in public. “But I thought, after tonight… perhaps you need a reminder of my feelings for you.”

John opened the box and nearly choked on his tongue at the sight of the silver pocket watch laying on a bed of satin within. An enormous, roughly heart-shaped blue stone sat embedded on the cover, glittering malevolently with an infinity of scalpel-like inner reflections.

“Good Lord,” he breathed at last. “Reinette, is it—”

“A diamond, yes,” she said, smiling with satisfaction as she lifted it from the case and gazed at it with unabashed admiration, blue reflected on blue. “Fifty-six carats. It was once owned by Louis the Sixteenth. They call it ‘The Heart of the Tardis.’”

His eyebrows drew together. “What’s a ‘Tardis?’”

She shrugged. “No idea. It’s just a fancy name, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well, couldn’t they have picked something that makes sense?”

She pinched her lips together. “You know, most people would say ‘thank you’ when presented with a diamond.”

He swallowed. “Erm. Thank you?” He leaned down awkwardly and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, seeming mollified. He looked at the watch in her hand and shook his head. “It’s just— well, it’s overwhelming.”

She took one of his hands in hers and placed the watch in it, curling his fingers around the cold timepiece and even colder diamond. “It’s for royalty. And that’s what we are,” she said. She trailed her hand up his arm to his shoulder and down his lapel, in an intimate caress. Her eyes lifted to his, her expression, for once, unguarded. “There is nothing I couldn’t give you. Nothing I would deny you if you would not deny me. Open your heart to me, John.”

He was under no illusions that this ‘gift’ was in any way a symbol of Reinette giving her heart to him. It was just another way to reflect light back on herself, the shining Reinette Poisson. It did not escape him that, were one to remove an ‘s’ from her name, it became ‘poison.’ The chain slipped through his fingers and dangled below his hand, a reminder of the chains she so eagerly threw about him, holding him to her.

* * *

_Saturday, April 13th, 1912_

John walked along with purpose in the sunshine of B deck, toward the gate leading to steerage. A couple of men on the deck stared at him, but he paid them no mind as he unlatched the gate and headed down to the third class general room, the social hub of steerage life.

The room was stark compared to first class, but it was a noisy, boisterous atmosphere, a far cry from the reserved parties upstairs. There were mothers with babies, shouting at older children who ran between the tables and benches, more than one language being tossed about. There were men playing chess, old women arguing, and young women sewing or reading cheap novels. There was even an upright piano in one corner, a man with bright red hair was playing around on it, tapping out snippets of songs. Three little boys were chasing a rat around, trying to hit it with a shoe, and generally causing a ruckus.

John noticed, however, that all activity started to cease as he moved through them, heading for the golden head toward the back of the room that was currently bent over a sketchbook. As people stared at him, some with open resentment, some with awe, he belatedly realized that he probably looked a bit out of place in his sharp blue day suit with tiny red pin-stripes, but it didn’t matter now.

He stopped in front of Rose and cleared his throat. She looked up, curiously, and blinked when she saw him standing there, clearly startled. He gave her a little smile.

“Hello, Rose.”

“Hello,” she said, a smile slowly creeping across her face. She glanced around to see everyone watching them, her face turning a bit pink.

“Would you mind if I spoke to you in private?” John asked.

“Oh, no, of course not,” she said, getting to her feet and closing the sketchbook. “Lead the way.”

John preceded her up the stairs, and held open the gate to the deck for her. Her slight blush remained on her cheeks as she walked past him, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. The hush followed them for a few seconds after the gate closed.

Rose clutched her sketchbook in front of her with tight fingers, looking at the floor boards as they walked. She was only too aware of the people they passed, either walking in the opposite direction or sitting in steamer chairs nearby. Their eyes were like arrows, watching the mismatched couple and probably wondering what he was doing in her company. She slid a glance over to John, who looked just as uncomfortable as she felt, but probably for different reasons.

“So, what’s your name?” she asked, finally.

“John,” he said. “John Noble.”

“There’s irony for you.”

“Hm,” was all he said to that. “Miss Tyler, I—”

“Rose.”

He paused, accepting the change with a nod. “Rose. I feel rather silly. It took me all morning to work up the nerve to come see you.”

“And here you are,” she said, offering an encouraging smile.

“Yes,” he said, returning it to a small degree. “I— I want to thank you. Not just for saving me, but for— well, for your discretion.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, genuinely, adding cheekily a moment later, “John.”

The sound of her saying his name left him a bit flustered and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know you must have thought me half-mad. What would a rich bloke like me know about misery?”

“That’s not what I thought,” she said.

“Oh?” he said, honestly curious.

She shook her head. “I was wondering what could have possibly happened to you, to make you think there was no other way out.”

“It wasn’t—” He sighed. “It wasn’t any one thing, it was… _everything_. This whole world that I find myself a part of, trapped in it, like a butterfly with a pin through my chest.” He began speaking rapidly, the whole story tumbling from his lips, “I was seized with this mad desire to get away. To just run and run and… well, then I reached the end of the boat. Not even the _Titanic_ was big enough to get away from them. Before I’d really thought it through, I was over the rail. I was furious. Not sure what I was hoping to accomplish… Perhaps I thought I could make them sorry for pushing me so far into their domestics.”

“Right,” she said. “That would show them. Because you’d be dead.”

He lowered his head, raking a hand over his face. “Oh, I’m an utter fool.”

“The porcelain princess from last night, is she one of them?” she asked.

“The p— Oh, Reinette!” He scoffed. “She _is_ them.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“It’s much worse than that, I’m afraid. I’m engaged to marry her.”

Rose pulled a face. “I am _so_ sorry.”

He burst out laughing, with her joining in a moment later. A passing steward glared at Rose, since she was clearly not a First Class passenger, but John stared him down and the man left them alone.

“So, you feel like you’re on a train that’s running away because you’re marrying this girl?” Rose summed up.

“Pretty much.”

She shrugged. “So, don’t marry her.”

He blew out a breath. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“It just… is.” He looked at her, his brown eyes large and bereft of hope. “Rose, I hope you won’t judge me til you’ve seen my world.”

She pressed her lips together. “I guess I’ll be doing that tonight.”

The silence stretched. Searching for another topic, any new topic, John indicated her leather bound book. “What’s this?”

“Just some sketches,” she said.

He was already reaching for it, making his question of “May I?” a moot thing, but Rose didn’t protest. Sitting down on one of the steamer chairs, he flipped it open. Slowly, he looked at each page seeing an old woman’s hands, lined and frail, a man sleeping on a bench, his coat for a blanket, a father with his daughter, counting seagulls. And one half-finished sketch of a man with a familiar profile, gripping the ship’s railing, his hair standing up at odd angles. A little smirk quirked his lips at that one. Each picture was an expressive bit of humanity, the faces luminous and alive, her book was a celebration of the human condition.

“Amazing,” he breathed, momentarily taken away from their surroundings by her work. “These are good, Rose. _Really_ good.”

She shook her head modestly, even though she smiled at his praise. “Well, they didn’t think much of them in Paris.”

“You’ve been to Paris?” he asked, surprised.

“Been a lot of places,” she said. “I love traveling. New people and places to see and draw. I get somewhere, stay long enough to earn the money to go somewhere new. Been doing it since I was fifteen. The _Titanic_ ’s just my latest mode of transport.”

He’d neglected to keep a good hold on the edges of the book while she talked, and a few loose drawings fell out, caught by the wind.

“Oh, no!” he cried, as Rose chased after them, faster than he from her standing position. She managed to grab two, but the rest went over the side, lost to the ocean. John’s face crumpled to one of regret as she walked back to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she said, good-naturedly. “Plenty more where they came from.” She wiggled the fingers of her right hand with a flourish. “Besides, it’s not like they’re worth anything.” In emphasis, she tossed the sketches she’d retrieved into the air, letting the wind carry them out to the others.

John had made an abrupt move, as though he would pluck the pages back, but they were gone too suddenly. “Well, I liked them,” he said, with a touch of defiance toward anyone who would say her drawings were worthless. Holding the book a bit more carefully now, he turned another page and blinked as he came upon a set of male nude studies. “Oh, my,” he murmured.

Rose giggled. “Are you blushing?”

“I am not,” he insisted, even as he felt his cheeks heat up a bit. He kept looking at the sketches, angling the book away when a few passengers walked by. He found himself transfixed by the languid beauty Rose had created. Her nudes were soulful, their hands and eyes particularly expressive and detailed. They felt more like portraits than figure studies, almost uncomfortably intimate. He cleared his throat, trying to keep the squeak out of his voice as he asked, “And these were, ah… drawn from life?”

“Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p’ cheerfully, as if she showed off naked pictures of men everyday. “That’s one thing to be said for Paris… Plenty of people willing to take their clothes off.”

He turned another page and studied a picture of a dark-haired, well-muscled man lying on his stomach, his hands under his chin, one furled and the other open like a flower. He lay half in sunlight, half in shadow, smooth and graceful.

“You liked this man,” he said. “You drew him several times.”

“He had lovely hands,” said Rose, leaning over to turn the page, which was a close up of the man’s hands, positioned to show off his long fingers to their best effect. “See?”

“Were you having a love affair?” he asked, something dark churning in his stomach as he asked. He didn’t like the thought for some reason.

But Rose laughed. “No. Jack was a great friend, but he mostly played for the other team.” John looked at her blankly. Rose coughed and turned the page, which showed Jack in a passionate embrace with another man.

“Oh!” John’s face definitely turned red then. He closed the book and took a breath before looking up at her. “You have a gift, Rose. You really do. You see people.”

“I see you,” she said, gently. And there it was again, that piercing amber gaze. He liked it when she looked at him that way, as if she saw everything about him, not just what sat on the surface.

He smirked. “Like what you see?”

Her tongue darted out to moisten her full lower lip, and his eyes were riveted to it. “Oh, yes,” she said in a low voice.

His eyes darkened a bit as he looked at her. “I envy you, Rose,” he said, softly, handing the sketchbook back. “You’re free.”

“Free, but poor,” she reminded him. “It’s not an easy life. No hot water, often not enough food.”

“But you’ve got no one to tell you what to do, how to live,” he said as he got back on his feet and they began walking down the promenade once again. “I have dreams that no one pays any attention to, they smile and nod and say, ‘oh, wouldn’t that be clever,’ but they don’t mean any of it.”

“What would you be, if you could be anything?” she asked.

“Ohhhh…” He let out a long sigh, a wistful smile on his face as he tilted it toward the sun, slowly sinking lower in the sky. “I’ve always been interested in the way things work, that wasn’t a lie when I said it last night. I’d love to be able to invent things.” He gestured toward a couple who were operating a moving picture camera at the rail. “Like that. Amazing invention!” He bumped Rose’s shoulder, fondly. “Why can’t I be like you, Rose? And head for the horizon whenever I feel like it? Tell me about your travels. Let me live vicariously.”

She smiled and began telling him all about the places she’d been, the jobs she worked, about going to Paris to see the ‘real’ artists. He was fascinated by how little money she made, impressed when she talked about riding horseback like a man, with her legs on either side, scandalized when she revealed that she knew how to spit.

“You do not,” he said, his mouth open.

“I do, too,” she said, proudly. “In fact, I won a spitting competition in a pub once.”

He took her hand, dragging her over to the railing. “This I have to see,” he said.

“Oh, no,” she said, laughing, looking around. There wasn’t anyone nearby, but they were still on the First Class deck. Surely, she shouldn’t…

“Well, if you’re not really a top shelf spitter, you could just come out and say so—”

Without warning, Rose horked back her snot and blew a high-arcing comet of gob over the side of the ship. John stood there, slack-jawed, staring at her.

“You really did it.”

“Yep,” she said, defiantly, her hands on her hips. “I am no liar.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “Think you can beat me?”

Neither one wanting to back down from the challenge, they took turns trying to beat each other’s range. Rose nearly doubled over with giggles when John was laughing so hard, his spit dribbled down his chin, making him fish in his pockets for a handkerchief. Not to be outdone, Rose wiped her face on her sleeve in an exaggerated fashion, making him laugh again. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun. He turned to tell her so, and froze when he saw who was behind her. Harriet Noble had been watching them for an indeterminate amount of time, accompanied by Sarah Jane Smith and a countess whose name John didn’t remember.

Rose noticed his pale expression and turned, her eyes going wide.

“Mother,” John said, his stiff, composed demeanor falling on him like a blanket. “May I present Miss Rose Tyler.”

“Ma’am,” Rose said, dipping a small curtsey.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Harriet deadpanned.

John proceeded with the introductions, but he saw the way his mother was looking at Rose. She no doubt felt gratitude toward the woman who had saved him, but to her, Rose was an insect. An annoying fly that should be crushed.

They all jumped as a bugler sounded the dinner call right behind them. Harriet sighed, but was clearly glad to have an excuse to depart. “Come, John,” she said, imperiously. “We should dress for dinner.”

He nodded obediently, moving to offer his arm, but called over his shoulder, “See you at dinner, Rose!”

Harriet frowned at him as they walked away with the countess behind them. “John, where on earth is your hat? You’re only making your freckles darker by being out in the sun like this…”

Left alone on the deck together, Sarah Jane looked at Rose, a trace of worry in her expression. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” she asked, kindly.

“Not the foggiest,” said Rose.

“Well, you’re about to be thrown to the lions,” said the older woman. “What are you planning to wear to dinner?”

Rose spread her arms as she looked down at herself. It was the only outfit currently in her possession. Sarah Jane sighed and shook her head. “That’s what I thought.” She took the young woman’s arm. “Come with me.”

* * *

John paced before the Grand Staircase, irritably tugging at his white tie and tight collar. Reinette, Harriet, Donna, and Lee were mingling about, chatting with the rich and affluent people around the room, but all John could think about was Rose. He wondered if she’d show up after the coldness his mother had shown her earlier. Not that he could have expected anything else, but still.

All around him, men and women in elegant attire swirled, a fabulous kaleidoscope of beautiful butterflies; the men in their dark jackets and white shirts and ties, their shoes buffed and polished, the women in long, floor length gowns, their hairstyles elaborate, their jewelry plentiful and twinkling. Above him was a huge glass dome with a shining crystal chandelier at its center, before him the wide wooden staircase rose six stories to the A-deck landing above. It was the height of opulent naval architecture. He saw none of it.

Because standing at the top of the steps was Rose, an ethereal vision in a rich, royal blue gown with a beaded black lace overlay and white gloves extending over her elbows. Her blonde hair was pinned up, with little curls over her forehead and a few tendrils by her neck. She needed no jewelry to accentuate her features, she was stunning. The low-cut dress showed off her neck and shoulders and John found himself staring, hypnotized by her beauty.

She smiled demurely as she descended the stairs, approaching him. He found himself offering his hand and she placed her gloved one in his. Leaning down, he kissed her fingers, never taking his eyes off of her. She flushed prettily, now beaming at him.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“Considering?” she teased.

He shook his head. “Considering nothing. You’re the most lovely woman here.” And he meant it. Rose’s beauty was a natural thing that shone outwardly from the inside, the perfectly turned out debutantes had nothing on her.

She ducked her head at his compliment. “It’s all Sarah Jane Smith’s doing. She let me have a bath in her suite and even did my hair.” She leaned in to whisper, “I feel like a spy. Everyone nodding at me, thinking I belong.”

“It’s easy,” he advised. “Just keep your nose up and pretend like you’ve got loads of money, it’s the only thing they respect.”

He offered his arm and she threaded hers through it. As they walked through to the D-deck reception room, he pointed out several notables to Rose, remarking on the scandalous pairs of men and their mistresses, the young and pregnant Mrs. Astor, and the well-to-do lady who designed lingerie for royals.

As they approached the double doors to the dining salon, they ran into the Astors.

John smiled as he said, “J.J; Madeliene, I’d like to present my guest this evening—”

Rose extended her hand to Mr. Astor. “Dame Rose of the Powell Estate,” she said, smoothly.

“A pleasure, my dear,” said Mr. Astor, taking her hand, smiling and nodding as though he knew exactly where Rose was talking about. John, meanwhile, bit his lip to avoid laughing.

The dining salon was like the ballroom of a palace, with constellations of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, full of elegantly dressed people and beautiful music from a small orchestra. John looked down at Rose, who must have been nervous, but she walked as gracefully as a bird gliding on the air. He felt a surge of pride, realizing now that she must have had to work up a lot of nerve to come here, just as he had, to come down to Third Class. Of course, she looked as though she fit right in, she could have perhaps been an heiress. ‘New money,’ of course, but still part of the club.

As they were all seated at the long table, Rose across from John, who sat between Reinette and Mr. Andrews, Reinette did not fail to say, “That’s a lovely gown you’re wearing, Miss Tyler. I almost didn’t recognize you. You could nearly pass for a lady.”

Harriet added, “Yes, do tell us, Miss Tyler, what are the accommodations in steerage like? I’ve heard they’re quite good.”

John closed his eyes to roll them. Leave it to his mother and his fiancee to point out which of these things is not like the other. Rose, however, didn’t even blink, her blithe smile never faltered.

“The best I’ve seen, ma’am. Hardly any rats at all.” She turned her smile to Sarah Jane, who returned it. “As for my clothing, I have Ms. Sarah Jane to thank. She loaned me one of her daughter’s dresses and things.” She wiggled her fingers to show off the long gloves with delicate pearl buttons at the wrist.

“My little darling is currently with her husband in Italy, and I pick up things for her here and there. But I don’t mind Rose ‘breaking it in’ for me,” Sarah Jane said with a little chuckle.

“Miss Tyler is joining us from Third Class this evening,” Reinette informed the table at large. “She was of some assistance to my fiance last night.”

John fought the urge to sigh and settled for biting his lip. The way Reinette put it, one would think John had dropped his hat and Rose had picked it up for him, but he didn’t want to announce that he’d nearly fallen off the back of the ship, so he kept silent. Surreptitiously, he motioned to Rose to remove her napkin from her plate. Clever girl took the cue immediately and he smiled.

He glanced down the table as appetizers were served, noting the way everyone was now looking at Rose and whispering amongst themselves. He stifled an urge to jump up from the table and storm out, because really, what was their problem? Certainly, he realized that having a Third Class passenger seated among them could be seen as a liberal move, but no one else besides their table was aware of it, so what was the real harm? Rose was beautiful and delightful, and as far as he was concerned, their company was all the more richer for having her there. He felt another burst of pride as she politely declined caviar, saying she never really cared for it, with all the airs of a gently bred princess. He never wanted to kiss someone so much as he did right then.

Remembering the fervent kiss they’d shared the night before sent a rush of heat through him. Knowing she was watching him carefully for cues as to which fork to use, he picked up his salad fork and met her eyes with a heated, heavy lidded gaze. She blushed and bit her lip, and his heart pumped a bit faster.

“Where is it that you live, Miss Tyler?” asked Harriet.

“Well, at the moment, Mrs. Noble, my address is the RMS _Titanic_ ,” Rose replied, turning her attention to the older woman. “After that, I go wherever the wind may take me, by God’s good grace.”

“This sort of rootless existence appeals to you, does it?” Harriet made it sound as though it were the height of indecency.

“The world is a very big place and we are so very small,” Rose said, quite seriously. “I want to see as much of it as I can. My father died when I was a baby, but my mother always talked about how he wanted to travel. I thought it was a shame that he died in the same town he was born in and I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t end up the same way. I left when I was fifteen, been traveling ever since, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. That kind of life teaches you to take things as they come, to think on your feet. You can’t just sit around and wait for things to happen to you, you have to make each day count.”

Sarah Jane lifted her glass in salute. “Well said, Rose.”

The sentiment was echoed by Donna. “Here, here.”

Eyes shining with pleasure, John charged his glass. “To making it count.” As the toast was uncomfortably murmured around the table, Rose inclined her head to John, smiling.

Harriet, clearly annoyed at Rose’s smooth ability to deflect verbal blows, tried again. “How is it that you have the means to travel, Miss Tyler?” she asked.

“Well, once I get somewhere, I settle in for a little while and work until I earn enough to go somewhere else. I find work in shops and the like. However, I actually won my ticket aboard the _Titanic_ in a lucky game of chance.” Rose’s eyes met John’s, the hazel darkening just slightly. “Very lucky.”

“All life is a game of luck,” said Donna, leaning over to grasp Lee’s hand. “We know a little about that, don’t we, darling?”

“I prefer to make my own luck,” Reinette sniffed.

John was gratified when the conversation strayed away from Rose, the attention span of the rich was really something to be laughed at, but in this case, it was useful. When dessert had been finished and the waiters began passing out cigars, he knew a moment of panic. He would be expected to go to the smoking room with the rest of the men. Even with Sarah Jane and Donna at the table, he didn’t want to leave Rose to the vipers, but he couldn’t stay behind with the women without looking odd. Should he chance it?

Rose, however, took the decision from him as she exhaled a slow breath and placed her napkin on the table, saying with a smile, “I suppose I should be getting back now.”

“Must you?” asked Donna, sincerely. John made a mental note to tell his sister how brilliant she was later on.

“Time for Cinderella’s coach to turn back into a pumpkin,” said Rose as she stood up. “Ms. Sarah Jane,” she said, turning to the older woman. “I’ll have a steward return the gown. Thank you again.” She spread her smile across the table, encompassing everyone in its glow. “This truly was a remarkable experience.” As she made her way around the table, John rose from his seat and took the hand she offered to him. “Thank you for the invitation. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

He nodded, his brow furrowing slightly as he felt a tiny slip of paper fall into his hand from hers. She quirked an eyebrow at him and turned to leave the salon. As he sat back down, he surreptitiously unfolded the paper underneath the table.

_Feel up to another challenge? Meet me at the clock. Make it count._

A smile spread across his face. When the men departed from the table, he walked slowly, letting everyone pass until he was at the back of the group, then he moved quietly away from them and headed for the A-deck foyer. At the top of the Grand Staircase, Rose was studying the ornate clock inlaid in the wooden panel with its twin figures of Honor and Glory. Softly, it struck the hour as she turned towards him, giving him that tongue-touched smile.

“How would you like to go to a _real_ party?” she asked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

The Third Class general room was crowded and alive with music. People were gathered around the upright piano, playing whatever instruments they’d brought with them. The songs they played were honking and rollicking, not always in tune, but played with gusto, everyone grinning broadly. People of all ages were dancing with each other, others smoking and drinking, playing cards, a few of the men were even brawling good-naturedly.

Martha handed John and Rose each a pint of dark beer and they toasted each other. John took a sip and made a face at the bitter taste, while Rose took several hearty gulps. She giggled at him when he upturned the glass, chugging the ale quickly, and she joined him in the race to finish hers.

“Bit different from champagne, eh?” she said, grinning.

“I’ll say!” he said, wrinkling his nose and running his tongue along his teeth several times in an attempt to get rid of the flavor. “That’ll take some getting used to.”

“Well, then!” She promptly handed him another pint. He made a face at her, but dutifully drank that one as well.

He finished with a little “ahh!” and a pleasantly surprised expression. “You’re right, it’s better on the second go,” he said, smiling.

Proud of him, she grabbed him by the front of his jacket and pulled him down, licking the foam that he’d gotten on tip of his nose. He blinked, startled, then grinned and grabbed her hand.

“Would you do me the honor of a dance, Miss Tyler?” he asked, giving her a shallow bow.

“Why, Mr. Noble, I’d be delighted!” she said with a little dip of a curtsey.

He extended his left hand to her, an elegant unfurling of fingers that held her transfixed for a moment. Her right hand trembled as she placed it in his. He pulled her into the frame of his arms, his other hand sliding to the small of her back. She looked up into his dark chocolate eyes, heat pulsing between them. Without a word, he swept her along into the dance.

“I’m surprised you know the steps,” she said as they moved in a circle with the other dancers.

“I don’t, actually,” he said.

“So, you’re making this up as we go along?”

“Yep,” he said, popping the ‘p’ the way she had before. “But I do it brilliantly!”

She laughed, the sound a beautiful counterpoint to the loud music. They danced and drank along with the others, the room becoming progressively more rowdy as the time passed. John and Rose each glistened with sweat from their exertions, but neither cared. John removed his tie and collar, stuffing them into a jacket pocket along with Rose’s gloves, promising to get them back to Sarah Jane later.

John downed another pint, well past the point of noticing the taste, upending the glass on his head with a hoot as he beat Rose in drinking it. The other third class passengers applauded and pounded him on the back. It was clear that John was a hit with them, they’d never had a high class knob party with them before. Laughingly, Rose wrapped her arms around his neck and laid a big smacking kiss on his lips. John happily grabbed her around the waist and spun her, his laughter loud and clear.

Neither of them saw Harold Saxon standing at the door to the well deck, watching them with his cold eyes. He slowly retreated, closing the door after him.

* * *

Much later, John and Rose walked along the boat deck, just a tad unsteadily, swinging their hands between them as they made up words to the tune of a popular song. Overhead, the stars blazed, so clear and bright, like a twinkling river of diamonds.

“Come, Rose of mine, in my Tardis divine! And it’s up she goes, up she goes, when and where she goes, there she goes!” They fumbled with the notes and laughed, uncaring.

“What’s a Tardis?” Rose asked.

He shrugged. “Just a word I heard lately, thought it would make a good name for a fantastical conveyance.”

“You’re right, it has a certain ring to it. Taaaaardis,” she said, drawing the word out.

They had reached the First Class entrance by then, but John wasn’t ready for the night to be over, so he went to the railing instead. He leaned backwards on his elbows and tilted his head back to look at the stars.

“Think a Tardis could take us out there?” he asked. “Look at it. So endless and majestic.” Rose joined him at the rail, leaning on it with her forearms. “They’re so small, my people are,” he went on, quietly. “They think they’re masters of the universe, but really… We’re all just specks. Not even that. They live in a delicate champagne bubble and one day… it’ll burst.” He sighed, turning around to match her position.

She leaned into his arm, curling her little finger around his. He moved closer, until her hand was twined with his. He marveled at how well they fit together. All his focus narrowed to where they were touching, shoulder to elbow to wrist and hand, the warmth shared between them.

“You’re not one of them,” said Rose, softly. “There was a mistake.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You were sent to the wrong address.”

He chuckled softly as they looked out over the water. A streak of white light illuminated the sky, briefly. “Oh, a shooting star,” he said. “Or meteorite.”

“Ugh, don’t call it that, you’re taking all the romance out of it,” she said. “My mum used to say that when you saw one, it was a soul going up to heaven.”

“That _is_ more romantic,” he agreed. “And aren’t you supposed to make wishes on them?” He looked down at her, realizing for the first time that they were standing quite close together. It would be an easy thing to lean in to kiss her. As he looked into her starlit eyes, he thought she might be thinking the same thing.

“What would you wish for?” she asked, her voice a bit breathless.

Likewise, his own breath was coming a bit fast. “Rose?” he asked, after a moment.

“Yes?”

“I’m a bit drunk.”

“Me too.”

“And you’re making me want things.” He swallowed hard. “Things I shouldn’t want.”

She didn’t ask him what ‘things’ he was talking about. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip. “Me too.”

He groaned. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that she knew exactly what he meant. They were in such accord with one another. “Things I… I _can’t_ want.”

“But you do, all the same.”

“God, yes.”

Bringing his free hand around to tangle in her hair, he found her lips with his, kissing her the way he’d wanted to all night. He tugged at her lower lip with his teeth, laving it with his tongue, and she moaned, opening her mouth to allow him entrance. Letting go of her hand, he turned to face her as she did the same, wrapping his arm around her waist and holding her close. Desire spiraled through him, much stronger than anything else he’d felt before. The pull he felt was magnetic, inexorable. It pained him to end the kiss.

He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes still shut tight. He cupped her face, struggling to get his breathing back to normal. “I… want you, Rose. So much.” She whimpered softly, almost making him lose his resolve. “I can’t do that to you. You are worth… _so_ much more than a dalliance. You deserve so much better. Someone who can give you everything.” Steeling himself, he stepped away from her, knowing the disappointment he saw in her eyes was reflected in his. “And that can’t be me. It just… it can’t.” He took a deep breath and gave her a sad smile. “Good night, Rose. And thank you.”

He turned and hurried through the First Class entrance, not wanting to look back, knowing that if he did, he’d drag her back into his arms, consequences be damned. He pretended not to hear her when she called his name.

* * *

_Sunday, April 14th, 1912_

It was a bright clear morning, the exact opposite of what John’s soul felt like as he sat in his dressing gown on the private promenade of their sitting room, having breakfast in silence with Reinette. The sunshine that spilled down onto their table was mocking him, he was sure of it. How dare anything be light and lovely when all he could see ahead of him was dark and dreary.

“I was surprised not to see you after dinner,” Reinette said, suddenly.

“I was tired,” said John.

“Yes, I imagine you would be after cavorting with that filthy prostitute all night.” Her tone was so blase, one would think she’d just asked him to pass the butter.

He stiffened. “Rose is neither of those things,” he said, his jaw tight as he attempted to remain calm. “And I see you had me followed. Was it that lap dog you call a bodyguard? Good to have this clarifying preview of what married life with you will be like--”

Reinette surged to her feet, shoving the small table to the side, sending it and its contents crashing to the wooden floor of the private deck. The full teapot shattered and sent a wave of amber liquid rolling toward their slippers.

“Do you think me an utter fool?” she spat, stepping in front of him before he could move, her blue eyes blazing with fury. “You are my fiance, my husband in practice, if not yet by law, and you _will_ treat me with respect! Do not think that I will allow you to go behind my back, to play with every lightskirt who takes your fancy, and then return home to me. You will _never_ behave that way again, do I make myself clear?”

He stared at her in shock, his mouth slightly parted. He’d never seen Reinette lose her temper in such a manner and it suddenly occurred to him on what thin ice he was treading. He swallowed and nodded his understanding.

Reinette turned and headed inside. He heard her call for her maid, saying they’d had an accident, ordering her to clean the mess up. John ran a hand over his face. He knew this was only the beginning. Might as well get it over with.

He went inside to finish dressing, wanting to get the lecture from Harriet done as soon as possible.

* * *

John sat on the edge of Harriet’s bed, staring at the wallpaper, while she fussed with her jewelry and selected a pair of gloves to match her outfit, a smart, dark green day dress with cream accents.

“You are not to see that girl again, John,” she said, firmly. “Do you hear me? I forbid it!”

Before he could think better of it, he snorted. Harriet turned to him, frowning, then crossed the room and closed the door, locking it with a sharp _clack_. “Is this amusing to you?” she asked. “This is not a _game_! You know how dire our situation has become!”

“Yes, mother, I know the money’s gone,” he said in a dull tone. “You remind me on a daily basis.”

“When your father died, he left nothing but a load of bad debts, hidden by a good name,” she said, going back to her dressing table. “That name is the only card we have left to play. This marriage with Reinette will ensure our survival.”

“Why must it all fall to me?” he asked, unhappily. “I’m as pleased as anyone that Donna was able to make a love match, but couldn’t you have asked her to make some sacrifices as well?”

“Lee is comfortably well off, and I’m glad of that for Donna’s sake, but it’s not enough to save the family,” Harriet said. She looked at him in her mirror and he saw the naked fear in her eyes. “Do you want to see me working as a seamstress? Is that what you want? To see our things auctioned off, our memories scattered to the winds?” Her voice broke on the last word, and she clutched at her throat. Despite what she wanted of him, John felt a twinge of guilt. Harriet had no experience living in the real world and the prospect had to be frightening to her. “Are you truly so selfish?” she asked, finally.

He wanted to be selfish. Desperately wanted to. But the ties of family responsibility were tight about his neck. Even so, he couldn’t help but mutter, “It’s unfair.”

“Of course it’s unfair,” she said. “We’re Nobles. The choices of the upper class are never easy.”

* * *

Rose attempted to make contact with John that morning at the church service, but was halted at the door by two stewards. Back in her Third Class clothing, she could no longer pretend she belonged on the A-deck.

“I was here, just last night,” she insisted. She caught sight of Harold Saxon making his way to the door and pointed at him. “He’ll tell you.”

“Mademoiselle Poisson and Mr. Noble wish to express their continued gratitude toward you,” he intoned, formally, “and wanted you to have this as a token of thanks.” He offered Rose two twenty pound notes.

She shook her head, her eyebrows coming together in confusion. “I don’t want any money, I just--”

“And to tell you that your presence here is no longer appropriate,” Saxon finished.

“I only wanted to talk to John for a minute,” she said, but Saxon merely turned to the stewards and handed them each a note from the reward she’d refused.

“Please escort Miss Tyler back to Third Class, gentlemen,” he said. He fixed his eyes on hers, coldly. “And see that she stays there.”

The stewards hustled Rose away from the dining salon. In desperation, she looked over her shoulder into the middle of the crowd where John stood with his family and fiance. He never looked up.

* * *

Being turned away from the service only fueled Rose’s determination to get back to John. She wouldn’t give up unless he told her, without being under alcohol’s blurring effects, that he didn’t want to see her again. A quick trip to the laundry, a bit of sneaking around, and she was able to procure a maid’s uniform, which would lend her invisibility and a passport to walk around freely.

However, being without a set of keys meant that she would need a bit of help getting to the A-deck. Martha had befriended a young man named Michael, or Mickey, to his friends, and had enlisted his help. As Rose straightened the little lacy cap on her head and pinned the apron to her chest, they marched across the aft well deck and climbed the stairs to B-deck.

“You shouldn’t be doing this, Rose,” Martha warned. She was willing to help her friend, but couldn’t let her go without voicing her opinion. “He’s in a completely different universe than you.”

Rose moved with purpose below the A-deck railing on the aft side. “It was them, not him,” she said. “If he tells me, then fine. Until then, I gotta try.”

Mickey shook his head and crouched down next to Rose, cupping his hands together. Rose put her foot into his hands and her hands on his shoulders. She looked to her friend.

“See anyone, Martha?” Rose asked.

Martha watched the promenade above for a moment. “You’re clear, go!”

Mickey stood, hoisting Rose up and over his head as she grabbed onto the railing and climbed swiftly over it. Mickey dusted off his hands and came to stand next to Martha as they watched Rose disappear.

“She’s not thinking logically,” said Mickey.

“Love isn’t logical,” said Martha.

* * *

John, Harriet, and Reinette were following along with a small tour group, led by Mr. Andrews. John was dawdling behind everyone, scribbling on a small pad of paper with a pencil and frowning. He scratched his head. “This can’t be right,” he said.

“Something the matter?” asked Mr. Andrews, moving to walk closer to John.

“I’ve done the sums twice, Mr. Andrews, and I’ve gotten the same result,” said John, showing the paper to the other man. “With the number of lifeboats given the capacity you mentioned, forgive me, but there doesn’t seem to be enough room for everyone on board.”

“You’re quite correct, Mr. Noble,” said Mr. Andrews. “You don’t miss a thing. There are enough for about half the passengers, actually. I had designed the ship to accommodate a whole other row of lifeboats, here,” he indicated the placement on the deck where they would have gone. “But there were those who thought it would make the deck look too cluttered… So, I was overruled.”

“It’s a waste of space as it is,” said Reinette. “On an unsinkable ship!” John frowned, stuffing his writing implements into his jacket pocket, as she laughed, the others joining in, and Mr. Andrews resumed his place at the head of the group to lead them to a new area.

As they passed boat seven, a hand reached out from the shadow it cast and tapped John on the shoulder. He turned and gasped as he saw Rose in a maid’s outfit. She gestured towards a door and he grabbed her upper arm, leading her over and into the gymnasium. They both looked out of the rippled glass window to see the exercise instructor chatting up a woman at the starboard rail. They had the room to themselves.

“Rose, what are you doing?” he asked. “This is impossible, I can’t see you.” Despite his words, his heart was soaring to see her again when he thought he would never be able to. He wanted to take her in his arms, his fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to reach for her.

She made the decision for him and took his hands. He found himself stroking the backs of them with his thumbs, unable to stop himself once the contact was made. “John, you might be a little bit of a git sometimes, but you’re also the most amazing man I’ve ever met. Your heart is so strong, so pure--”

“Rose, I--”

“No, let me finish,” she said. “If I can’t ever see you again, at least let me get this out.” She paused for breath and he nodded, he had to at least give her that. “I know I have nothing to offer you, of course I know that, but I’m part of events now. Remember? You jump, I jump. I couldn’t leave you without knowing you’re going to be all right.”

He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. He felt her hands stroking his back. “You’re too good, Rose. I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you. You’re making this so hard for me.” She giggled low in her throat and he couldn’t help but smile. “Naughty girl.”

“Can’t blame me. Not after those toe-curling kisses.”

He hummed his agreement, nuzzling her ear with his nose. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

“No, you won’t,” she argued. “They’ve got you like a firefly in a jar, but you’ll die if you let them keep you in there. Not for a while, because you’re strong, but sooner or later…” She brought a hand to his face, caressing him. “Your fire is gonna go out.”

He shook his head. “You can’t save me, Rose.”

“Maybe not. But maybe you can. Or maybe we can do it together.”

He leaned down and kissed her. Because he had to, or his heart might have burst. He was falling in love with her, he knew, just as surely as he knew the sun would go on rising and setting. Rose was his equal in every way that mattered, and she was wrong when she said she had nothing to offer. She offered a partnership, which was something no one else had. Everyone else expected him to fall in line, to do as he was told, to be the perfect gentleman. Rose didn’t want that, she wanted him to live his life the way he wanted to, to make mistakes and try new things.

Perhaps loving her was a mistake, but it was one he wanted to make in grand fashion.

She grabbed him by the lapels without breaking their kiss and walked backwards until she made contact with the wall behind the door. Her hands slid down to his hips and pulled him closer, encouraging him to press her against the hard surface. She made a soft purring sound as she felt him growing firm against her belly through the layers of their clothing.

He pulled back from kissing her, gasping. "We can't," he whispered.

"No, we _shouldn't_ ," she corrected him. "We absolutely _can_."

“Temptress,” he growled, finding her neck with his teeth. He made a surprised noise through his nose as she palmed the front of his trousers.

“Shh,” she said. “Stay quiet. We don’t want to draw anyone’s attention.”

The illicit nature of her words somehow just excited him even more, sending a rush of arousal straight to his groin, punctuated when her quick fingers unbuttoned and freed his throbbing length from his trousers and smalls. He groaned, feeling her warm hand enveloping him, stroking him slowly up and down.

“Rose,” he whispered. “You don’t--”

She shushed him again with a soft smile. “Let me do this. Please.”

He closed his eyes on a whimper as she dropped to her knees in front of him, kissing his tip, then swirling her tongue around the head. He wanted to fall at her feet and worship every inch of her, instead she wanted to do this for him. How could one person be so selfless? One person who made him want to be selfish and reckless, to take what she offered and forget the rest of the world.

He leaned one hand against the wall in front of him as she encased him in her hot, wet mouth. His other hand found the back of her head, cradling it gently, not pushing her. She sucked him in earnest, pumping him at the base, knowing they were short on time. He grimaced, feeling the pressure rise fast, coiling up as the pleasure mounted. As good as it felt, he wanted more, wanted to pull her up and find her center underneath the skirts she wore, wanted to know if she was slick with want for him, wanted to thrust home until she cried out his name.

Imagining their coming together sent him over the edge and Rose swallowed around him as he threw back his head, his mouth open in a silent cry. She released him as he began to soften and his hand tightened in her hair, tugging her to her feet. He punished her mouth with a fierce kiss, plundering with his tongue, tasting the salt of his own pleasures.

Dimly, he was aware of her hands, tucking his damp member away. He gasped for breath, shaking his head. “I should tell you to stay away, for both our sakes.” He kissed her again. “But I can’t make myself do it.” He sighed. “I have to go back. They’ll wonder where I am. But I _will_ see you again, Rose. I don’t know how. But I’ll _make_ it happen.”

With a final kiss, he turned and left the gymnasium, hurrying to catch up to the tour group. Rose leaned against the wall, watching his figure pass through the rippled glass of the window. She closed her eyes and sighed, long and unsteadily, pressing one hand to her chest as she willed her heart to slow down.

* * *

Later that day, Rose found herself at the bow of the ship, watching the colors of the sunset on the clouds of the horizon, the most beautiful painting in existence, one that changed every night. She was still in the maid’s uniform, having found that no one really looked at her too closely when she wore it and she could go practically anywhere, as long as she walked with purpose. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the chill wind clear her head.

“Hello.”

She turned to see John standing a few feet away, smiling at her. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were sparkling. A wide grin spread across her face.

“How did you manage it?” she asked.

“Spilled tea on myself,” he said with a smug smirk. “Went to go change. Then went to find you. Martha told me you might be here.”

She held out a hand to him and he came to her, threading their fingers together. “I want to show you something,” she said. “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely.”

“Close your eyes.”

He did, and she pulled him forward, turning him to face the direction the ship was headed. Gently, she pressed him to the rail and stood up on the lower rungs herself so she could be just a little taller than him, looking over his shoulder. Then she took his hands in hers and stretched them out to either side of him. He followed her every movement, obediently keeping his eyes shut. When Rose lowered her hands, his stayed up… like wings.

“All right,” said Rose. “Now, open them.”

John’s eyes fluttered open and he gasped. There was nothing in his field of vision but the blue and purple water, cut with the red, pink, orange, and yellow of the sunset. It was as if there was no ship under them at all, just the two of them… soaring together. The Atlantic unrolled toward him, seemingly endless to the horizon under the dusk sky. He could hear only the wind and the hiss of the waves, fifty feet below.

“We’re flying, Rose!” he said, in utter delight. “Well, not _actually_ flying, that would be silly, but it _seems_ like we are and that’s bloody _brilliant_!”

He leaned forward, arching his back, and Rose’s arms came around his torso, holding him steady. “Come, John of mine, in my Tardis divine…” she sang softly in his ear.

He laughed. “You found it,” he said. “You found our Tardis. This is _just_ what it would look like, if we opened its doors and looked out… Just us and the horizon.”

John closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of floating weightless over the sea. A soft smile touched his lips as he leaned back against Rose, feeling her hair brush his cheek as the wind caught strands of it and pulled it from her top-knot. Slowly, she lifted her hands, running them along the undersides of his arms, until they met his. Their fingers intertwined. Like in a dream, their fingers moved around and through each other, languidly, like the bodies of two lovers.

Rose tilted her face forward until her cheek was at his ear. He turned his face towards her, until their lips could almost meet, the gusty wind stealing the breath between them. Lowering his arms, he turned further, finding her mouth with his. She wrapped her arms around his waist, covering his hands with hers, kissing him softly, pulling back and meeting again, over and over, feeling the surrender in his posture, giving everything up to her, to the emotion, to the inevitable. What had begun tremulously, built with fire and passion, surging through them like the ship through the sea.

To John, Rose was just like the _Titanic_ , an unstoppable force of power and optimism, lifting him up, buoying him forward on their journey, soaring onward into a night without fear.

That was the last time the ship would ever see daylight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW.

Rose walked slowly around the sitting room of John’s suite, her mouth slightly parted as she looked at the furniture made dark wood and upholstered in plush satins. John turned on a Tiffany lamp, but the colored glass gave only ambient light. Turning on a second one did little to help.

“Is this all right?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t artists need good light?”

“I can work with this,” said Rose, setting her drawing supplies, which they’d retrieved from Third Class, down on a marble topped table. Her gaze fell on John’s paintings which were leaning against a wall and her eyes lit up. “Monet!” she exclaimed, going over to look at the waterlilies more closely.

“You know him?” John asked, surprised.

“I saw him once through a hole in his garden fence,” said Rose. “I love his work, you really feel the motion of it. Though he’s a bit eccentric… ‘I am Monet,’” here she affected a low, French accent, “‘If I say water is purple, then it is purple!’” She giggled.

John smiled and made his way over to the walk-in wardrobe. Rose followed him, fascinated, as he worked the combination of a heavy safe. “Reinette insists on lugging this around wherever we go. Doesn’t trust the ship’s purser,” he explained. The safe came unlocked with a _CLUNK_.

“Speaking of her royal fishness,” she said, and John snorted at the play on his fiancee’s last name, “Should we be expecting her anytime soon?”

“No,” he said, taking the black jewelry case from the depths of the safe. “They’re at tea, then they’ll play cards or find some other amusement. They won’t be back until it’s time to change for dinner.” He turned to Rose and opened the case, removing the watch. Her eyes were huge as he dropped it into her trembling hand.

“Wow… What is it? A sapphire?” she asked, breathlessly.

“A diamond,” he said. “It’s called ‘The Heart of the Tardis.’”

She grinned at him. “So, that’s where you got the word. You’re right, it’s a much better name for a magical transport than a rock.” Despite the offhand way she referred to it, her eyes were still quite wide as she looked back down at the timepiece, unable to fathom the wealth she held in her hand.

“I want you to draw me wearing this,” said John. He smiled, a flash of heat in his dark eyes. “Like one of your French boys.”

Rose blinked at him, surprised. Then she smirked.

* * *

Sitting in a comfy wingback armchair, Rose laid out her pencils like surgical instruments, her sketchbook open and ready on the table. She looked up as John came back into the sitting room, wearing a dark blue dressing gown.

“The last thing I need,” he said, moving towards her, “is another portrait of me looking like a scarecrow with a stick up my back.” He pulled a silver shilling out of his robe’s pocket and held it up with a grin. “As a paying customer, I expect satisfaction.” He tossed her the coin and she caught it against her chest, too busy staring at him to catch it properly.

He parted the robe and let it drop. Rose burst out laughing. He pouted and cross his arms. “Just _what_ is so funny?” he demanded.

In answer, she could only point at him. He was wearing a blue waist coat, with the watch attached to the fob… and nothing else.

He huffed. “Well, how else am I supposed to wear a fob watch?” he asked, put out. “It’s not like I could string it around my neck like a bloody necklace.”

She caught her breath and stood from the chair, putting her arms around his neck. He stood there stiffly in her embrace until she said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed. It’s just not what I was expecting. You caught me off-guard.”

He slid his hands around her waist then, leaning down to kiss the crown of her head. “You caught me off-guard earlier,” he admitted. “I wanted to do so much more… But there wasn’t time.”

She looked up at him, her eyes darkened to umber. “There’s time now.”

John hastily assisted in getting Rose out of the maid’s uniform, eager to see her fully now that they had the opportunity. When the clothing lay in a heap on the floor, her long, golden hair unbound and flowing free about her shoulders, he pressed her down on the sofa and stood back. Her skin had a rosy hue in the light of the lamps, she was all softly rounded curves, legs long and toned from a life of hard work and travel. Her nipples pebbled under his gaze and he felt his length twitch. She smiled as she saw it bob up and down. She reached out her hands for him.

Instead of joining her on the couch, he knelt on the thick persian rug, parting her legs. He licked his lips unconsciously as he took in the sight of her pale pink flesh, glistening with moisture. He pressed fervent kisses to the tender flesh of her inner thighs, moving higher and higher until he could nuzzle the curls above her apex, breathing in the scent of her arousal.

She moaned, low and long, arching her neck, as he licked her from bottom to top and swirled his tongue in a circle around her pleasure center. She carded her fingers through his hair and he hummed against her, closing his eyes. She gasped as the vibration traveled from him to her, and he did it again, just to see if he could get her to lose herself in the sensation.

“John, please,” she begged, her voice high and thin.

Unable to deny her, he slid two fingers into her folds and was rewarded with a fresh wave of wetness. She cried out as she clenched around him, grasping at him, as though trying to keep him inside as he slowly pumped his hand. He nipped and sucked at the tight bundle of nerves as he curved his fingers upward, seeking that sweet spot that would send her to the stars.

The sound of her calling his name in passion was something he knew would stay with him the rest of his life. He pulled back, his face shining in the low light, wanting to watch her come down from the high, her breasts heaving as she tried to catch her breath. He withdrew his fingers and slowly stroked himself, spreading her slick and his precome along his length. He shivered as she opened her eyes, gazing at him from beneath hooded lids. She grabbed his waistcoat and pulled him up and over her, popping one button off in the process. He didn’t care.

She kissed him, caressing his tongue with hers, tasting herself the way he’d done before. She sat up, scooting to the edge of the sofa, and grabbed two fistfuls of the waistcoat, swinging him around to land on the cushions. Another button flew free in the process, landing somewhere across the room. Digging his heels into the couch, he propped himself up on the pillows leaning against the arm as Rose climbed on top of him. He groaned and stilled the moment he felt her warm sex brush against him.

Slowly, she ground herself down, moving her hips in little figure eights and sometimes in tiny spasmodic jerks, as her fingers undid the remaining buttons. The watch fell free of its pocket as she parted the waistcoat, but with the fob still attached to it’s button, it fell across him and landed on the cushion, the chain cold against his belly. She trailed her hands through the scant amount of hair on his chest, making him shiver all over again. Leaning down, she laved and suckled at each of his dusky nipples, all while her folds stroked him, bathing his hard length in wetness.

He clutched reflexively at her hips, unable to do much more than lay back and enjoy her ministrations. Just when he thought it was his turn to beg, she lifted herself up on her knees and guided him to her entrance with one hand.

He uttered a hoarse cry as she lowered onto him, a sound she echoed in odd harmony. She was tight wet velvet, slowly sheathing him in perfection, for that was what she was. He ran his hands over her small waist to her ribcage and up to cup her full breasts and run his thumbs across her hard, puckered nipples, then back down. He grabbed her hips and pressed down at the same time he thrust up and was gratified when she moaned loudly, tossing her head back, her long hair brushing the tops of his thighs.

Grasping the back of the couch with one hand, Rose began to ride him and he worked to match each of her movements. They were climbing toward something, hard and fast and beautiful, and he wanted to fly there together, impossible as that was.

Nonsense fell from his lips, breathless words of adoration, as his eyes devoured the sight of her rising and falling, her breasts swinging slightly, and lower, to the place where they were joined. Watching his cock disappear inside of her over and over was a pleasure too intense to bear and the pressure began to rise. He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating, wanting to last longer, never wanting it to be over.

She brought one of his hands to her curls and, catching on to what she wanted, his thumb jerkily found her center, rubbing and circling the little nub. She gasped and moaned and clenched, sending him over while calling her name, just as she shouted her release, because Rose, it seemed, did not believe in impossible.

And just like before, he was flying and she was there with him, soaring together to heights yet unknown to each of them. Places he wanted to go again and again.

As the stars receded and she caught her breath, she looked down at him, seeing his smug, satisfied smile and heavy lidded eyes. She smiled, her eyes bright with sudden inspiration.

“Don’t move.”

She took his hands and settled them above his head, then slowly climbed off of him. She took him in, from crown to toe, the waistcoat shoved open, two buttons missing, the watch lying carelessly beside him as it hung from the chain, his cock glistening with their combined pleasures. She nodded.

“Perfect. Just like that. Eyes on me. Beautiful.”

Not bothering to dress herself, she sat down in the chair she had previously vacated and picked up her sketchbook and pencil. Her cinnamon eyes watched him from over the top of the pad, dark and intense. Her pencil moved swiftly, with sure strokes, capturing John in the blissful haze of love making, radiating with languid energy.

As she sketched the curve of his hips and started on his intimate parts, she saw that he was already half-hard again and a small, feline smile quirked her lips.

“I do believe you are blushing, Miss Artiste,” John teased. “I don’t think Monsieur Monet would be blushing.”

She lifted an eyebrow at him briefly, keeping most of her attention on her work. “He does landscapes,” she said.

“Oh, I see. Nothing quite so… _impressive_ , is what you’re saying,” he said, puffing his chest out a bit.

She rolled her eyes, trying not to laugh. “Oh, yes. _So_ impressive.”

“Are you making fun of me? Again?”

“I would _never_ make fun of a paying customer,” she said in mock shock. He looked so hurt that she had to smile at him. “I’m kidding. You are _quite_ impressive. I thought that would be fairly obvious to you. Now, relax your face, please.”

The portrait didn’t take very long at all, it seemed, and Rose believed it was easily her best work. Not so surprising, considering the subject. As a muse, he was brilliant. His hands in the drawing, so near to his expressive eyes, were exquisitely rendered, the light seeming to move outward from his face. The picture was an intimate expression of carnal delight, a glimpse of his wild soul beneath the carefully turned out exterior. She signed it ‘RT’ at the bottom, very pleased with herself.

John looked at the finished product over her shoulder as he tightened the belt of his robe. “Date it, won’t you? I want to always remember this night.”

Dutifully, she wrote ‘4/14/1912’ next to her initials. Meanwhile, John scribbled a note on _Titanic_ stationary, then accepted the drawing from her and moved to the safe. He put the drawing, note, and watch back in the jewelry box and placed it all inside the safe, closing the monstrosity with a heavy _THUNK_.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the Palm Court salon, Harold Saxon caught Reinette’s eye across the room. She detached herself from the group she was chatting with and walked to a quiet corner where her bodyguard met her, his rigid posture betraying his frustration.

“Well?” she asked.

“None of the stewards have seen him,” he said.

Her lips tightened. “This is unacceptable, Harry. _Find_ him.”

* * *

Fully dressed again, John returned from his bedroom to the sitting room to find Rose just finishing pinning her apron on. She grinned at him and dropped a mocking curtsey. He chuckled, moving closer to take her in his arms again.

They heard a key in the lock and their heads snapped to the door. John grabbed Rose’s hand and silently ran with her into his bedroom. Saxon entered the sitting room a moment later.

“Mr. Noble?” he called. “Are you here?”

He heard a door shut and hurried through the bedroom to the side door. Opening it, he looked down the length of the corridor to see John with Rose halfway to the B-deck foyer. His expression dark, he hustled after them.

“Come on!” said John, beginning to run with Rose right at his side, surprising the few ladies and gentlemen nearby. He led her past the stairs to a bank of lifts. They ran into one, shocking the lift operator. “Take us down!” John ordered. “Hurry, hurry!”

The operator scrambled to comply, with John helping him to close the steel gate. Saxon ran up as the lift began to descend. He slammed a hand against the gate, teeth slightly bared in a growl. John stuck his tongue out at him, making Rose laugh.

They exited the lift at E-deck and took the stairs down to F. It was a bare, functional space with access to a number of machine rooms such as the fan rooms and boiler uptakes. They leaned against a wall in the corridor, laughing.

“Tough bloke!” Rose commented, a hand at her stomach as she caught her breath.

“He’s a bodyguard, I suppose he has to be,” said John. “I was really surprised when I met him, because he’s not, you know… _massive_ , the way those men tend to be. Then I saw him take down a would-be pickpocket using only one hand.” He blew out a breath. “He knows how to hurt someone, that’s for certain.”

The man in question suddenly came into view at the end of the corridor and spotted them.

“Uh oh,” uttered Rose as Saxon charged toward them.

Hand in hand, John and Rose ran down a blind alley. There was one door marked ‘crew only.’ John threw it open and they darted inside a roaring fan room with no way out but a ladder heading down. Rose turned the deadbolt on the door they came through and Saxon slammed into it a moment later. John grinned at her and gestured toward the ladder, gallantly.

“After you, my lady.”

They climbed down into boiler room five and gaped in amazement at the flurry of activity around them. It was almost like a vision of hell itself, with the roaring furnaces and the dark figures moving through the smoky glow. They ran the length of the room, dodging stunned stokers and trimmers with their wheelbarrows full of coal.

“Don’t mind us!” John called, gleefully. “Carry on!”

They ran through the watertight door into boiler room six. John pulled Rose through a fiercely hot alley between two boilers, leaving them in the dark, out of sight of the working crew. They watched from the shadows for a moment, the stokers endlessly shoveling coal into the insatiable maws of the furnaces.

She looked up at John as the whole place thundered around them with the roar of the fires and pulled him down for a kiss just as heated, tasting the sweat that trickled down his face in the steamy, pounding darkness.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the first class salon, Reinette was barely listening to the chatter around her. She looked at the clock irritably and sipped her tea. The delicate china clattered loudly as she set it down a little too hard. She scowled, narrowing her eyes at the doorway which showed no sign of either her fiance or her bodyguard.

* * *

John laughed as he chased Rose into one of the cargo holds. They darted around luggage and crates, all stacked neatly in rows. He caught her at last as she came around a tall blue wooden box, holding her close as they both shivered, cold now after the heat of the boiler rooms.

“Oh, look!” Rose said and John looked up to see a Renault touring car, lashed down to a pallet. Its brass trim and headlamps were set off beautifully by the deep sapphire color, almost the same as ‘The Heart of the Tardis,’ making it look like a fairy tale carriage.

Grandly, he handed Rose into the richly upholstered backseat where she sat, pretending to fan herself and acting very royal. John jumped into the driver’s seat and honked the horn before placing his hands on the smooth wooden steering wheel, liking the feel of it, resolving right then to learn how to drive as soon as he was able.

“Next stop, my lady?” he asked, nose in the air.

Rose’s hands came out of the shadows and landed on his shoulders, running them down his chest as she leaned forward. She whispered in his ear, “Everywhere.” Smiling, she pulled him over the seat and into the back with her.

At once, he was kissing her, his mouth sliding across her jaw and down her neck. He grasped her hands and brought them to his lips, kissing her artist’s fingers.

He wanted to say something, to tell her how much she meant to him, how he cherished her. So, he said “Rose Tyler,” encompassing everything that name held into his voice. From her smile, he thought she might understand.

“I know.” She pulled him closer as she slid lower in the seat, kissing him as he covered her with his welcome weight.

He shucked his jacket as her hands went to the fastenings of his trousers. He grasped the hem of her dress and tugged it up above her waist, along with her cotton underskirt. His fingers found the slit in her drawers, relishing the moan she made as he caressed her folds and the hooded nub above. He was already firm from their kisses, though the cold had dampened his ardor somewhat, but she soon stroked him to full readiness.

As he entered her with one sure, swift thrust, he marveled anew at the shivering sensations that spiraled through him at the perfect feel of her around him, the beautiful sounds she made as they moved together to reach for the heavens. He would do anything, _anything_ , if he could only make her look at him the way she was right then, every day for the rest of his life.

Instead of that thought bringing terror in its wake, the way it always did whenever he thought about settling down, a sense of rightness followed. He wanted Rose, and he wanted forever. Despite what that would mean, he felt no regret at giving up the life he had known. Not if it meant being with her.

“I love you, Rose,” he found himself saying, the words bursting forth from his heart, unable to be contained.

“Oh, John,” she moaned, cupping his face with her hands. “I-- AH!” Her back arched as she came, suddenly and forcefully, squeezing him with deceptive strength, sending him over into his own climax. The fingers of one hand clutched his shoulder, her fingernails biting into his flesh, the other hand flailed, smacking the foggy back window of the car, leaving a handprint in the veil of condensation.

As he collapsed on her breast, he found her shaking and grabbed his jacket as a makeshift blanket for the two of them. “You’re trembling,” he said.

She nodded. Tilting his chin up with two of her fingers, she met his gaze and smiled, her eyes warm and soft. “I think it’s because I didn’t know it was possible to love someone so much.”

He kissed her, in love, in amazement, in gratitude. He didn’t realize that he was shaking, too. His arms snaked underneath her, wanting to be closer, needing to hold onto her for dear life.

* * *

Upstairs, in John and Reinette’s suite, Reinette stood before the open safe. She held in one hand the drawing and in the other, John’s note. Her nostrils flared as she read the scribbled words:

_“My dear, now you can keep us both locked in the safe. John.”_

Saxon stood at Reinette’s elbow, looking at the drawing. She crumpled the note and threw it on the floor, then took the picture in both hands, tensing as though about to rip it to shreds. Her bodyguard, however, laid a hand on her wrist.

“Wait, my lady. I have an idea.”

* * *

Rose and John emerged from a crew door onto the forward well deck near the bow of the ship, hardly able to stand upright for laughing so hard. The stars shone brightly overhead. He caught her in his arms, their breath misting in the air between them, but now he didn’t even feel the cold.

“When this ship docks, I’m getting off with you,” he declared.

Her smile was dazzling. “This is mad, you know.”

“Yes. That’s how I know it’s right. Because it doesn’t make any sense at all.” He pulled her in and kissed her fiercely, sealing the promise between them.

Suddenly, the ship lurched, and the two lovers pulled back to stare up in astonishment as an iceberg sailed past, blocking out the sky like a mountain. Fragments of it broke off and crashed down onto the deck, and they jumped back to avoid being hit by the flying chunks of ice. Rushing around to the rail, they watched as the silent berg moved aft along the side of the ship. They looked down, trying to see if the hull of the ship had been breached.

“I don’t see anything,” said Rose finally, after squinting down at the waves for several minutes.

“We came awfully close to that iceberg, though,” said John, glancing back at the ice on the deck.

“It didn’t seem like much of a bump,” she said, but didn’t sound overly certain.

Behind them, a couple of young boys from steerage were kicking around a piece of ice like a ball, and laughing. John took Rose’s hand and together they climbed the stairs, stepping over the locked gate to B-deck. A moment later, the Captain rounded the corner, moving quickly, followed by Mr. Andrews and another man. John and Rose stepped back to allow them to pass, the three men barely glanced their way.

“Can you shore up?” Captain Smith was saying.

“Not unless the pumps get ahead,” answered the third man. They moved downstairs to the well deck.

John looked at Rose. “It sounds bad,” he said. “I have to tell mother and Reinette. Come with me.” Rose’s face betrayed her nervousness and he squeezed her hand. “It’ll be all right. We’re in this together. You jump, I jump, right?”

She nodded, bravely. “Right.” Together, they made their way inside, crossing the B-deck foyer and into the corridor.

As they approached the suite, Saxon was waiting for them. “We’ve been looking for you, Mr. Noble,” he said to John. As the two of them passed the bodyguard, he followed close behind… Smoothly slipping the diamond watch into the pocket of Rose’s skirt.

Reinette and Harriet were waiting in the sitting room when John and Rose entered. Saxon stood at the door, effectively blocking the exit. The Master at Arms, the closest thing to a policeman onboard, and two stewards were in the room as well. John didn’t understand their presence, but decided to get to the heart of the matter at once.

“Something serious has happened,” he began.

“Yes,” Reinette cut him off. “Something has. Two things were taken from me this evening. And now that _one_ has returned,” her eyes sharpened on John, then slid to Rose, “I have a fairly good idea where to find the other.” Looking at the Master at Arms, she indicated Rose with a tilt of her head. “Search her.”

The Master at Arms moved to Rose, beginning to search her apron and pockets.

“This is ridiculous!” Rose cried as one of the stewards held her arm.

John stepped closer to Reinette, his eyes flashing with indignation. “Reinette, you cannot be serious, we’re in the middle of an emergency and--”

“Is this it?” the Master at Arms asked, pulling the watch from Rose’s pocket.

Rose’s mouth dropped open. John’s face was frozen in shock. He took the watch from the man, looking at it as though he couldn’t believe it was really there.

“That’s it,” Reinette confirmed.

“Right then,” said the Master at Arms, handcuffing Rose. “Don’t make a fuss.”

“John, you don’t believe this, do you?” she asked, her hazel eyes wide with fear.

“She couldn’t have,” John said, still looking at the watch.

“Of course she could,” Reinette said. “Easy enough for a professional. She could have memorized the combination when you opened it.”

“But… I was with her the whole time,” John sputtered.

Reinette took his elbow, turning him away from the others, and said in a low, cold tone, “Perhaps she took it when you were putting your clothes back on.”

“They put it in my pocket!” Rose cried.

“It’s not even _your_ pocket, though, is it?” said Saxon, eyeing her maid’s uniform. “Unless you’ve recently been employed as _Titanic_ staff.”

“I was going to return it--” The stewards pulled Rose by the arms, hauling her away. She looked frantically to John. Surely he wouldn’t let this happen! “John! Don’t listen to them! You know I’m not a liar! You know I didn’t do this! You _know_ it! John! _John_!”

John stared at her, his eyes glazed over, as she disappeared from sight with Saxon and the other men. He didn’t know what to do, his heart felt heavy, yet shattered at the same time. He wasn’t sure what to believe, his feelings, or the watch in his hand, the chain swinging like a pendulum. Devastation curled in his stomach like iron, his world torn like so much wet paper.

Harriet stood from the sofa, clutching her robe at the neck. “There’s some kind of commotion in the corridors,” she said. “They’re knocking on doors. I’d better go dress.” She exited the suite to go to her own, leaving John and Reinette alone.

Reinette looked up at her fiance, regarding him coldly for a long moment, then suddenly slapped him sharply across the face. His head turned, but otherwise, John barely reacted to the cracking blow, already leaving a bright red stain on his cheek. It was nothing compared to the damage his heart was suffering.

“You bloody bastard!” she spat at him. A knock came at the door before she could berate him further, however, and a steward poked his head in.

“Sir, ma’am,” he said, nodding politely to each of them, “I’ve been asked to tell you to please put on your lifebelt and to come up to the boat deck.”

“We’re busy,” Reinette snapped, but the steward entered the room, insistent.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am, but it’s Captain’s orders.” He grabbed the lifebelts from the top of a dresser and handed one to each of them. “Please dress warmly, it is quite cold outside.” He offered a reassuring smile to Reinette. “Not to worry, I’m sure this is all precautionary.”

* * *

Reinette, carrying her lifebelt, was followed by John, wearing his and moving like a sleepwalker, into the A-deck foyer. A large number of passengers were gathered near the staircase, talking over one another, trying to find out what was going on. From one side of the room, the orchestra still played valiantly onward. One first class woman was barefoot, many others in stocking feet. The maitre’d from the restaurant was in his top hat and overcoat. Others were still in their evening dress while others were in dressing gowns and kimonos. Women wore their lifebelts over velvet gowns, topping them with fur stoles. Some glittered with their jewelry, some had brought books, and a few carried small dogs. No one seemed to know what was really happening, and most wanted to go back to their rooms.

“Blasted English, insisting on doing everything ‘by the book,’” said Reinette, disdainfully.

Mr. Andrews came into the foyer then, looking around the magnificent room with the air of a doomed man. John, seeing the man’s heartbroken expression, approached him. Reinette followed John, unwilling to let him out of her sight again. John grasped Mr. Andrews’ arm, his brown eyes piercing into the other man’s gray ones.

“Mr. Andrews, I saw the iceberg,” John said in a low voice. “And I can see it still, in your eyes. Please, tell me the truth.”

The shipbuilder swallowed. “ _Titanic_ will sink,” he said, his voice betraying just the barest tremble.

“You’re certain?” John asked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Andrews. “In an hour or so. All this…” He waved his hand, encompassing everything, “will be at the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“Mon Dieu…” breathed Reinette, stunned, as she finally grasped the dire situation.

Looking between the two of them, Mr. Andrews said, “Please tell only who you must. I don’t want to be responsible for a panic. Get to a boat quickly, don’t wait.” He looked to John, urgency passing between them. “You remember what we said about the boats?”

John inhaled sharply. “Yes. I understand. Thank you.”

Mr. Andrews nodded once and moved toward the crowd of people, urging them to put on their lifebelts and to head for the deck.

Harriet approached them, finally dressed and wearing her lifebelt. Suddenly she stopped, her hands going to her throat. “My brooch,” she said. “I’ve forgotten it. I must go back.”

Reinette grabbed her by the arm, her slim fingers an unrelenting shackle. “Harriet. You must stay here.”

Looking at the fear on the young woman’s face and surprised by the firmness of her grip, Harriet looked then to John, whose expression was a pale mask of dread. Slowly, the blood drained from her face as she knew the cold hand of terror for the first time.

* * *

Below, since they didn’t actually have secure area for ‘prisoners,’ the Master at Arms and Saxon were handcuffing Rose around a four inch water pipe in his office when a steward rushed in, out of breath.

“You’re wanted by the Purser, sir,” he blurted to the Master at Arms. “Urgently.”

“Go on,” said Saxon, nodding toward the door. “I’ll keep an eye on her.” From the interior of his jacket, he pulled out a pearl handled pistol and held it up. The Master at Arms handed the bodyguard the handcuff key and left the room with the steward.

Smirking at Rose, Saxon tossed the key into the air and caught it. Rose sighed and sat down on the bench next to the pipe to await her fate.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this is a bit dry (no pun intended), because there is a lot of description of the boat sinking and what's happening in regard to that. I hope you keep reading anyway. ^_^

The lifeboats were beginning to be deployed, women and children only, with the crewmen working slowly, contributing to the chaos when they had trouble with the new boat davits. None of them had had a boat drill with the new system. Passengers huddled together in boats less than half full, terrified at the drop down to the water.

Along the side of the ship, many portholes glowed green under the surface where they angled down into the sea. Rose peeked out of one that was half-submerged and gulped apprehensively. This didn’t look good. This was a whole country away from good.

Saxon sat on the edge of the Master at Arms’ desk and placed a .45 bullet flat on the surface. It rolled off the edge and he caught it in his hand.

“I believe this ship may be sinking,” he said, conversationally. Rose looked away to roll her eyes. He stood up and crossed to her. “I’ve been asked to give you this small token of appreciation…” He crossed an arm in front of himself, wanting her to see it coming and not be able to get away. He grinned at the fear in her eyes just before he backhanded her across the face.

Rose fell against the wall, her arms awkwardly holding her up where she was cuffed to the pipe. She looked up at the man who shook his hand as though he’d soiled it by touching her. A line of blood dripped from her nose.

“Compliments of Mademoiselle Reinette Poisson,” he said, taunting her once more by flipping the handcuff key in the air and catching it, then putting it back in his pocket. He left the room.

Rose climbed to her feet as best she could and wiped her face on her shoulder, leaving a red smear.

* * *

At the stairwell rail on the bridge wing, a ship’s officer lit a distress rocket and fired it into the air. It streaked into the sky and exploded with a thunderclap over the passengers, who turned their fearful faces heavenward to look at the white starbursts that lit up the deck as they fell.

As the crewmen called for women and children only, John looked at the tearful farewells in front of him as they were moved closer to the boats. Husbands were saying goodbye to their families, lovers and friends were parted. Nearby, Sarah Jane was urging a tearful Donna to climb into the boat.

The redhead looked back across the gap to Lee, kissing her fingers and holding them out to her husband. “I love you!” she cried. “We’ll meet in New York, you’ll see!”

He swallowed and nodded, but his face was stricken with grief as he stepped backward with the other men.

Harriet asked a steward, “Will the boats be loaded by class? I hope they won’t be too crowded--”

Fed up, John rounded on her, taking her by the arm and turning her away from the busy crewman. “Mother, I’ve got something very important to tell you: _shut up_!” he shouted. Harriet froze, her mouth hanging open. “Don’t you understand? The water is freezing and there aren’t enough boats, not enough by half! _Half_ the people on this ship are going to die!”

“Not the better half,” Reinette sniffed.

John looked at her in outrage, but his fury was instantly eclipsed by fear. Rose was Third Class. She didn’t stand a chance. Another rocket burst overhead, bathing them all in its light.

“You unbelievably heartless bitch,” he said, his voice breathless with astonishment as he shook his head, not wanting to believe that anyone could be so callous. He looked over to Harriet, who was being helped into the boat by Sarah Jane and a crewman. He sighed. “Good-bye, mother,” he said, sadly. In all likelihood, he knew it would be the last time he would see her. He backed away from the boat with a half-hearted wave then turned to head inside.

Reinette followed him, grabbing his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“Get on the lifeboat, Reinette,” he said, detachedly. “You heard them. They’re calling only for women and children.”

“I’ll pay someone,” she said with the certainty of the rich. “I’ll get you on the boat with me. Now, come on!” She pulled at him, but he shrugged her off. Her expression turned stormy. “You’re going to _her_ , is that it? To be with that trollop over me?” She laughed, shortly and without humor. “You’d actually rather live in squalor with that guttersnipe!”

“I’d rather squalor with her than a life in your gilded cage!” he snapped.

She clenched her jaw and made another grab for him, but he pushed her away. Reinette slipped on the damp deck and fell down, cursing in French. Her pursed her lips as she watched John disappear into the crowd.

He ran through the First Class entrance, down the Grand Staircase, pushing past the men and women who were filing upwards.

* * *

Down in the office, Rose pulled at the handcuffs with all her might, but the pipe and the cuffs held firm. She stopped as she heard a gurgling noise and turned. Water began pouring from underneath the door, rapidly spreading across the floor.

“Shit,” Rose muttered and turned her attention back to the cuffs. She tried to pull one of her hands free, working until the skin was raw, but the cuffs were simply too tight. She looked back at the water, seeping steadily into the room. “ _Help_!” she shouted. “Somebody! Can anybody hear me?”

Rose’s voice carried faintly down the hallway… but there was no one to hear her.

* * *

Down in the First Class corridor, Mr. Andrews was ducking his head into various state rooms, making sure everyone had evacuated. John ran into him, breathlessly.

“Mr. Andrews! Thank God!” he gasped. “Where would the Master at Arms take someone under arrest?”

“John? What are you doing here?” the man asked. “You must get up to the boats!”

“I am going to do this with or without your help,” John said, seriously. “But that will take time I do not have, so please, _help_ me.”

Mr. Andrews paused, but nodded. He pointed in the direction of the foyer. “Take the lift. Go all the way to the bottom, go left in the crewman’s passage, then make a right.”

John nodded his head. “Down, left, right. Got it.” He turned and made for the foyer.

“Hurry, John!” called Mr. Andrews.

John ran to the bank of lifts just as the last operator was starting to close the gate to head for the deck. “I’m sorry, sir, the lifts are closed--”

He grabbed the lift operator by his shirt and hauled him back into the lift. “I am _done_ being polite!” John said, fairly growling. “Now, take me down this _instant_!”

With wide eyes, the man closed the gate and started the lift. John watched the floors stream past. As the car slowed, suddenly ice water began streaming in around their legs. Both men called out in surprise. The lift stopped in about a foot of water. Ignoring the operator’s whining, John clawed open the gate and splashed out. Behind him, the lift went back up as he looked around.

“Left, crewman’s passage,” he muttered, heading in that direction. He ran, lifting his knees up high over the flood to move faster through the water-logged corridor. The entire floor looked deserted. He was on his own. He turned into a cross corridor with doors on each side. “Rose? _Rooooose_!” he called, loudly.

In the Master at Arms’ office, Rose was again pulling on the pipe until she was red in the face. She went absolutely still as John’s faint voice reached her ears. Even if she was imagining it, she had to try, had to believe he would come to her. “John!” she screamed, slamming the metal of the cuffs against the pipe, making it clang. “In here!”

John whirled around at the sound of her voice and slogged over to the correct door. Relief bloomed in his chest as he saw her, crouched on top of a bench next to the large pipe. In an instant, he was at her side, holding her in his arms and kissing her face over and over.

“Rose, my Rose,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“That bodyguard bloke put it in my pocket,” she said between kisses.

“I know, I know.”

“How did you find out?” she asked.

“I didn’t,” he said. “I just realized that I already knew.”

She smiled up at him. Despite the water pouring in around them, the despair that had seized her vanished as she saw the love in his eyes. Tenderly, he touched her face near her mouth where a streak of red was smeared, and a violent rage seethed within him, that someone would dare harm his Rose. Regret that he'd ever doubted her tempered the fiery emotion and he kissed her again, silently vowing to always believe in her. Then he pulled back, looking down at the handcuffs.

“Where’s the key?” he asked.

“Saxon took it,” said Rose. Doubt crept into her gut, but John was undeterred. He searched briefly in his pockets for something.

“You know how I told you I like machinery?” he said, pulling out a small roll of leather, tied around the middle with a string.

“Yes?”

“Well, I took up tinkering as a hobby, rather than polo.” He unfurled the roll, revealing a set of miniature tools; a clamp, pliers, scissors, a little hammer, and a screwdriver. From his interior jacket pocket, he pulled out a set of spectacles and put them on, giving him a slight clinical air. “Hold still,” he advised and Rose braced the handcuffs on the pipe as he leaned down, examining them. “We’re in luck!” he said.

“We are?” asked Rose. Some good news would be nice.

He gave a low hum, straightened, and plucked a hairpin from Rose’s topknot. Her hairstyle flopped to one side, coming partially undone, but neither of them cared.

“It’s a newer set,” he explained. “They’re much easier to defeat!” He straightened the pin with the pliers and picked up one cuff, sliding the bit of metal into the opening where the cuffs snapped together. Using the hairpin to block the teeth, he was able to unfasten it. Rose laughed in amazement and he grinned back at her, but there was no time for a celebration.

Hastily, he rolled his tools back up and stuffed them in his pocket as Rose climbed down into the knee-high water, screeching at the cold. “If there’s time later, I’ll get you out of the other one.” He grabbed a lifebelt from the top of a chest of drawers and helped her into it. “Now, let’s go!”

John and Rose hurried as fast as they could back up to E-deck, where they encountered Martha and Mickey at the back of a long queue of steerage passengers. Rose and Martha embraced each other like sisters.

“The boats are all going,” Martha said, pointing over the heads of the everyone in the crowded corridor. “They locked the gate on us because too many people don’t understand the stewards and the men were getting violent.” They could hear the steel gate being pounded on. They wouldn’t be getting anywhere on the main stairwell.

“Then we’ve got to find another way up,” said Rose. “Come with us.”

The four of them moved toward the aft of the boat, passing confused passengers on the way; a woman with a baby, a husband and wife arguing heatedly in a foreign language, a crying child beside them, a man kneeling to console a woman who was just sitting on the floor, sobbing, and a family trying to make sense of the signage with an English/Arabic dictionary. They found a stairwell and ascended two decks before they were stopped by a small group assembled at a gate. The steerage men were shouting at a frightened steward through the bars.

“Go to the main stairwell,” the young crewman was saying. “It’ll all get sorted there.”

John took one look at the scene and just lost it. “God _damn_ it all to Hell!”

With wild eyes, he turned to a bench that was bolted to the floor of the landing and began tugging on it. Seeing what he was doing, Mickey joined in, with Martha getting some of the other men to help. Rose turned to the rest of them and bid them stand aside, clearing a path to the gate between the waiting people. Between everyone’s effort, the bolts sheared and the bench ripped free.

John and Mickey ran up the stairs and rammed the bench into the gate with all their strength. It ripped loose from its track and fell outward. They nearly missed hitting the steward. Led by John, the crowd surged through.

He stepped up to the cowering crewman and said in his most imperious tone, “If you have _any_ intention of keeping your pathetic job with the White Star Line, I suggest you escort these people to the boat deck, at _once_.”

Class won out. The steward nodded meekly and turned to lead the way upstairs, motioning for them all to follow.

* * *

They emerged onto the boat deck from the crew stairs on the port side, just past the third funnel. Looking down the length of the ship, all that could be seen were empty boat davits.

“They’re all gone!” John said, aghast. He grabbed the arm of a man hurrying past. “Sir, are there any boats left?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, staring at John’s wet clothes. “There are still a couple boats all the way forward.”

Taking Rose’s hand, John ran past him, with Mickey and Martha close behind. The small orchestra was, incredibly, still playing their instruments.

“Music to drown by,” Mickey said, as they dashed past. “Now I _know_ I’m in First Class.”

Water began pouring like a spillway over the forward railing on B-deck. In the fore starboard area, the crowd was sparse, most of the people were still aft. Mickey handed Martha off into one of the collapsible boats after a hasty kiss, but Rose refused to go with her.

“Rose, _please_ , you have to go,” John begged.

She shook her head. “I made my choice and I’m not going without you. You jump, I jump, remember?”

He pulled her into his arms, kissing her, holding her as tightly as he could. A scream of rage startled them both and they turned to see Reinette, amazingly still on board, her face a mask of fury so extreme, it eclipsed all rational thought. Saxon came up behind her, putting a restraining hand on her shoulder, but the woman whipped around, grabbing the bodyguard’s pistol from his waistband in one swift cobra-like move.

John grabbed Rose’s hand and ran for the A-deck foyer, taking the stairs several at a time. Reinette skidded to a halt at the landing and fired the gun, screaming her rage. The carved cherub at the bottom center railing exploded upon impact. John pulled Rose toward the stairs going down to the next deck. Reinette came down the Grand Staircase, firing again, blowing a divot in the oak paneling above Rose’s head just as she headed down a set of stairs.

At the bottom of the staircase, Reinette stepped on the scattered remains of the cherub’s head and was sent sprawling to the marble floor, the gun clattering out of her hand. Gritting her teeth, she got to her feet and picked it up.

The D-deck reception room was flooded several feet deep, but John and Rose plunged directly into the water, fording across the room to where the floor sloped up and they were able to reach dry footing at the entrance to the dining salon. Reinette reached the bottom of the stairs in time to see them. She fired twice more, but hit only the water. It was obvious she’d never fired a pistol before.

The water churned up around her feet and she retreated up a few steps. Around her the woodwork creaked and groaned. Suddenly, revenge didn’t seem as important as the dwindling number of lifeboats.

“Enjoy your time together!” she called after the pair. “You’ve only got the rest of your lives!” She turned to go back upstairs, then groaned, closing her eyes.

“What is it?” asked Saxon.

“The diamond,” said Reinette. She pointed in the direction they’d gone. “He’s still got the bloody diamond attached to his waistcoat pocket!” She looked up at Saxon with a sickly expression, her eyes glittering blue coals. She handed him back the gun. “It’s yours… If you can get it.”

As his employer headed back to the boat deck, Saxon looked at the gun in his hand, thinking it over. A moment later, he slogged through the water. The icy sea was up to his waist as he made his way across to the salon.

The dining room was dark and silent. Saxon moved among the tables and ornate columns, searching, listening. His copper colored eyes tracked rapidly across the sea of tables. His quarry could be anywhere. A silver serving trolley rolled down the inclimb, bumping into tables and pillars as it went.

He glanced behind him at the water following him into the room, advancing in a hundred foot wide tide. The reception room was a roiling lake and the Grand Staircase was submerged past the first landing. The ship groaned monstrously, the sound echoing eerily.

Saxon moved over one row and looked along the tables. Nothing. He moved to the next row. A metal cart stacked high with china dishes rolled down the aisle between the tables. It hit one and the dishes toppled out, exploding across the floor, and Rose darted out from behind the table, trying to get out of the way. Saxon spun around, his eyes landing on her. He raised the pistol, but John tackled him from the side.

They slammed into a table, crashing over it and onto the floor. They landed in the water which was flowing rapidly between the tables. The two men grappled in the freezing water, Saxon trying to aim the gun, but John jammed his knee down on his Saxon’s hand, breaking his grip. John kicked the firearm away. They scrambled up, but Rose came up behind him, breaking a huge, heavy serving plate over his head. Saxon dropped to the floor with a splash.

“Compliments of Dame Rose of the Powell Estate,” she said with a definitive nod.

John grinned, so proud of her fiery spirit, and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go.”

They ran aft, uphill, entering the galley. Behind them, the tables were islands in a lake, and the far end of the room was flooded up to the ceiling. The cold water jolted Saxon awake and he hurriedly got to his feet. Finding his gun, he pulled it out of the water and waded after them.

John spotted the stairs at the other end of the galley and started up, but Rose pulled him down into the lower stairwell instead, placing her finger to her lips. They crouched together on the landing as Saxon ran to the stairwell. Assuming they went up, he clomped up the stairs two at a time. John and Rose waited for his footsteps to recede, then made their way up as the ship groaned and torqued around them.

After seemingly endless stairs, they ran out of the Palm Court on the port side. John pushed his way to the rail and looked at the state of the ship. The bridge was underwater and chaos reigned on the deck. People streamed around the two of them, pushing and shouting.

“We keep moving aft,” he said to Rose, making sure her lifebelt was tight. “We have to stay on the ship as long as possible.” Her hand in his, they made their way to the back through the panicking crowd.

They clambered over the A-deck aft rail, jumping together into the crush of people who were literally clawing and scrambling over each other to get down the narrow stairs to the well deck, the only way aft. Seeing that going that way was impossible, John climbed over the B-deck railing and helped Rose over. They jumped down again and pushed through the crowd across the well deck. Near them, at the side rail, people were leaping into the water.

The ship groaned and shuddered. A man in front of John was moving like a sleepwalker. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” he intoned.

“If we could move a bit faster through that valley, ta,” said John as he hustled Rose around the man.

Behind them, the stay cables along the top of the forward funnel snapped, falling like steel whips down into the water. The funnel toppled from its mounts, falling like a temple pillar twenty eight feet across. It whomped into the water with a tremendous splash, the people who were swimming underneath it disappeared in an instant.

At the stern, Rose and John struggled to climb the well deck stairs as the ship tilted. John put his hand squarely on her bum and shoved her up onto the deck.

“Not the time to cop a feel, love!” Rose said as she grabbed his hand and pulled him up with her.

“Not the time for levity, Rose!” he called back, but couldn’t help a little smirk all the same.

Hundreds of people were already on the deck and more were pouring up every second. John and Rose clung to each other as they struggled across the tilting deck. People were jumping from the well deck, the gangway doors, everywhere. Some hit debris floating in the water and were hurt or worse.

John and Rose continued aft as the angle increased. They moved past passengers, clinging to every fixed object on deck, huddled on their knees around the priest who’d conducted the Sunday mass, his voice lifted in prayer. Everyone around him was praying, sobbing, or staring into nothing, their minds blank with dread.

Pulling themselves from handhold to handhold, the two lovers kept moving until they made it to the stern rail, right at the base of the flagpole. They gripped the rail, jammed in between other people. Two nights and a lifetime ago, it was the spot where Rose had pulled John back onto the ship.

The lights of the ship flickered, threatening to go out. Rose gripped John tightly as the stern lifted into a night sky ablaze with stars. She stared around her at the faces of the doomed, seeing a family huddled together stoically, a young mother clutching her son, probably no more than five years old, who was crying in terror. The woman murmured to him, her words of comfort mingling with those of the priest.

Higher and higher, the stern deck rose. People lost their grip and slid down the wooden deck like a bobsled run, hundreds of feet before they hit the water. Panicking people leapt from the deck rail and fell screaming as they hit the ocean with a sound like mortar rounds. The people swimming below looked up to see the stern towering over them like a monolith, the giant propellers rising against the stars. The lights flickered again. A moment later, they went out all over the ship, leaving the _Titanic_ a vast black silhouette against the starry sky.

Then, a loud cracking report sounded. Near the third funnel, Saxon was clutching the railing on the roof of the Officers’ Mess Hall. He watched in horror as the deck split apart, a yawning chasm opening with a thunder of breaking steel. He gaped down into the widening maw, looking straight down into the bowels of the ship, amid a booming concussion like the sound of artillery. The people falling into the crevasse looked as tiny and fragile as china dolls.

The stay cables on the funnel parted and snapped across the decks, ripping off davits and ventilators. Saxon saw a man hit by a whipping cable and snatched into the air. Another cable suddenly smashed the rail next to Saxon and it ripped free, making him fall backward into the pit of jagged metal. Fire, explosions, and sparks lit his way as the hull split down through nine decks to the keel. The sea poured into the gaping wound and the bodyguard instantly disappeared.

The stern half of the ship, almost four hundred feet long, fell back toward the water. On the deck, a cacophony of screams filled the air as the passengers felt themselves plummeting. The section of the ship fell back almost level, thundering down into the sea and pushing out a mighty wave of displaced water.

John and Rose tightened their grip on the rail. Though the ship felt like it had righted itself, they knew it was not salvation. Pulled down by the awesome weight of the flooded bow, the buoyant stern tilted up rapidly. They felt the rush of ascent as the fantail angled up again. Everyone was clinging to benches, railings, ventilators, anything to keep from sliding as the stern lifted.

As people began to fall, sliding and tumbling, John bumped Rose’s shoulder with his own. “Come on, we have to move!” He climbed over the stern rail and reached back for her, but he could see the terror in her eyes. Grabbing her hand, he said, “I’ve got you, Rose. I won’t let you fall.”

Remembering saying something so similar two nights before, she nodded, allowing him to help her over, just as the railing was going horizontal and the deck vertical. He held onto her fiercely. They laid on the railing, looking down fifteen stories to the churning sea at the base of the stern section. People near them, who didn’t climb over, hung from the railing, their legs dangling over the long drop. They fell, one by one, plummeting down the sheer face of the deck.

John and Rose, side by side, held onto the railing, lying on the now horizontal face of the hull. Just below their feet were the tall letters spelling out _Titanic_ across the stern. She stared down, petrified, at the black ocean waiting to claim them, barely a hundred feet below.

“Take a deep breath and hold it right before we go into the water,” John said, talking rapidly. “The ship will suck us down, but the lifebelts will help bring us up. Kick for the surface and keep kicking. Don’t let go of me, you understand?” She nodded and he leaned swiftly, kissing her. “We’ll make it, Rose. Trust me.”

She squeezed his hand tighter. “I trust you.”

Below them, the deck was disappearing, the plunge gathering speed. The boiling surface engulfed the docking bridge and then rushed up the last thirty feet. The name _Titanic_ disappeared, along with John and Rose, vanishing under the water.

Where the ship had once stood, there was nothing. Only the black ocean and some bubbles.

Underwater, bodies whirled and spun, some limp as dolls, others struggling spasmodically, as the vortex sucked them down and tumbled them. John kicked hard for the surface, holding tightly to Rose, pulling her up with him.

They exploded above the surface, which was a roiling chaos of screaming, thrashing people. Over a thousand people were floating where the ship went down. Some were stunned, gasping for breath. Others were crying, praying, moaning, shouting, screaming. People were clawing at each other, driven insane by water that was below freezing, a cold so intense, it was like fire.

John and Rose fought to get away from the clot of people, encouraging each other to keep swimming as they panted and gasped for breath, looking for some kind of floatation, anything to get them out of the water. All around them was a tremendous wailing, a chorus of tormented souls, and beyond that, nothing but black water stretching to the horizon and a sense of isolation and hopelessness.

Rose squinted, seeing something long and flat bobbing in the water. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

Spotting it, they headed for it together and found it to be a piece of wooden debris, intricately carved. He pushed her up and she slithered onto it on her belly, but when John tried to climb up next to her, it tilted and submerged, almost dumping Rose off. He frowned.

“Well, that’s a bit rubbish,” he said. He looked around, seeing more debris, and inspiration lit his eyes, much like Rose’s had just before she drew his portrait. “Rose, take off your lifebelt,” he said, reaching into his coat pocket.

“What? Why?” she asked, but did as he asked.

“You don’t need it now, but I do.”

He took it from her, setting it down flat on the wooden panel. Next, he pulled out his roll of tools and spread them out next to it. With the scissors, he cut the lifebelt apart into the separate floatation sections, giving them to Rose for safekeeping so they wouldn’t float off. He grabbed a chair that was bobbing past and used the small hammer to extract the nails, sticking the flat ends in his mouth as he prized up each one. That done, he set to work, hammering the pieces of the lifebelt all around the piece of debris, giving it added buoyancy.

“Oi,” called a man swimming toward them. “What’re you doing?”

“Building a pontoon raft,” said John, matter-of-fact. “Or near enough. Grab a piece of debris that’ll carry you and bring it back. Find something with screws or nails, too.” He held his hammer aloft. “We’re going to _live_!”

The man’s face, though pale with cold, illuminated with the first real spark of hope they’d seen in hours. “God bless you, sir.” The man swam off with purpose, spreading the word through the crowd.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! I'm glad you all enjoyed this alternate universe romp through the world of Titanic with the characters from Doctor Who. I had a lot of fun writing it!

The raft, cobbled together from various pieces of the ship and most of the lifebelts, was a tad unsteady, but held firm. The passengers who still lived were all huddled together in little sections, so no single area was too weighted down. They shared what little heat was generated by their proximity to one another, sitting in small circles so their breath met in the center. First, Second, Third Class, none of that mattered. They were shivering uncontrollably, their lips blue, their teeth chattering, but they were still alive. And they would take whatever chance they could.

A ship’s officer sat blowing his silver whistle furiously, knowing that the sound would carry over the water for miles. John slowly walked past them, moving his hand from shoulder to shoulder to steady himself. Everyone helped him, holding up a hand just in case he stumbled. Language didn’t matter, they all knew he was the man who’d gotten them out of the water. One of the officers looked up at him, a spark in his eyes.

“The boats will come back for us, sir,” he said, “You’ll see. They had to row away for the suction and now they’ll be coming back.”

John nodded at the man, pressing his lips together in solidarity. He made his way back to Rose, who was sitting with Mickey and Lee and a couple others.  Her smile was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He sat down next to her, pulling her into his lap. She turned her face into his collar, which was stiff with ice, but she didn’t care.

“Thank God for you, John.”

They drifted under the stars, the water around them glassy, with only the faintest undulating swell. The stars reflected back on the black mirror of the sea. There was still the possibility of dying of exposure, but everyone clung to the hope that rescue would come.

“I don’t know about you,” said John, “but I plan on writing a very strongly worded letter to the White Star Line about all this.”

They only had enough breath to laugh weakly, but it was enough. Rose squeezed John’s hand.

“I love you,” she said.

He furrowed his brow. “Are you saying good-bye to me? After all I’ve done to save us?”

She grinned. “No. I just needed to say it.” She caressed his face with her cold fingers. “Winning that ticket was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because it brought me to you. And I love you. And I’m so grateful.”

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “It was you who made me not want to give up,” he said. "You kept me fighting."

Aside from the shrill whistle, it was quiet. The water lapped gently. Then, from the other side of the raft, someone started singing in a high, soft, breathless voice…

_"Nearer my God to thee, nearer to thee…"_

Slowly, the others joined in, lifting their voices in song. Rose and John snuggled close to each other, listening. It was the sound of hope.

John tilted his head back, looking at all the countless stars. “Did I ever mention that astronomy is one of my other hobbies?” he asked.

“No,” she said, looking up at the sky as well. “How many hobbies do you have?”

“Oh, loads,” he said. “Did I never tell you? I’m _brilliant_.”

She laughed and he began to point out various constellations and tell her the stories that went along with them, their faces close together as his hand reached above them, sweeping along the blazing diamonds overhead.

* * *

The head officer of boat fourteen worked like a madman, a demon of energy. He’d assembled boats ten, twelve, and Collapsible D, having everyone hold the boats together as they transferred passengers. Once the collapsible and boat twelve were at near capacity, the others empty but for the men at the oars and tiller, he ordered boat ten to follow him and his crew of three for a rescue attempt.

The beam of his electric torch played across the water like a searchlight, illuminating floating debris; a violin, a child’s wooden soldier, a framed photograph of a family, a wooden Biograph camera. Then, the first bodies came into the torch’s beam, their white lifebelts bobbing in the darkness like signposts. Not drowned, they were killed by the freezing water or by jumping from the ship. Some appeared as though they could have been sleeping. Others stared with frozen eyes.

Soon, the bodies were so thick, the seamen couldn’t row. They tried to gently push them out of the way with the oars, making dull wooden thunking sounds. One officer heaved over the side of the lifeboat. The man who’d arranged the rescue stared out at all the lost souls, a deep regret forming like cold iron in his gut.

“We waited too long,” he muttered. Then, impossibly, he heard something. He held out one hand to stop the rowers. “Shh,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

They all stilled. A weak but shrill whistle was being blown in short, repeated blasts. And beyond that…

“Singing?” one of the oarsman said, as though he couldn’t believe it.

The officer turned the tiller. “That way!” he shouted, pointing. “ _Pull_!”

The sounds became progressively louder as they rowed, and then, they spied movement. A man, _standing_ , and waving a handkerchief.

“Oi!” he cried, his voice weak from the cold, but not nearly as much as it should have been. “Over here!”

The officer trained his torch beam on the handkerchief in the man’s hand and it shone, bright white, in the dark, giving the rescuers something to aim for. Their eyes widened as they saw a multitude of people who appeared to be _sitting_ on the water. It wasn’t until they were right upon them that they saw the makeshift raft. Everyone was listening to the man who’d stood up as he advised them all to remain seated as one group at a time shifted into the lifeboats, to avoid making the raft collapse. The officer was astonished at his command over the people, after the panic he’d seen aboard the _Titanic_.

Fifteen hundred people went into the sea when _Titanic_ sank. Of the twenty boats that were launched, two came back and found roughly two hundred people on a raft made out of lifebelts and debris and hope. It took two trips, but all of them were saved, including a young blonde in a maid’s uniform and a young man with hair that stood up at all angles who wouldn’t let go of her.

The nine hundred waited in their lifeboats, for death or life. It was in the golden light of dawn that the _Carpathia_ was spotted. There were tears on board, endless tears, happy ones of gratitude and reunion, and ones of sorrow, as widows embraced each other, seeking solace.

Among the survivors was Mr. Ismay, who had the face and eyes of a damned soul. He walked along the hall, guided by a crewman, passing rows of seated and standing widows. As he ran the gauntlet of accusing stares, it was the longest walk of his life.

On the afternoon of the fifteenth, Reinette came to the deck of the _Carpathia_ , which was crammed with huddled people. As she walked toward the stern, John peeked out from under the woolen blanket he was sharing with Rose. Reinette didn’t see him, they all looked the same to her. He turned his back on her as a steward approached her.

“You won’t find any of your people back here, ma’am,” he said, seeing her elegant gown and guessing her to be First Class. “It’s all steerage.”

She nodded once and turned to go upstairs, believing John lost to her. And he was. Though it would have meant being able to see his mother again, he let Reinette go back to her perfumed world. Lee had left them to be reunited with Donna, and had promised to reveal John had survived only to her.

The evening of the eighteenth, Rose and John looked up at the Statue of Liberty alongside Mickey and Martha, welcoming them to land with her glowing torch. On the pier, over thirty thousand people lined the dock and filled the surrounding streets. The magnesium flashes of the photographers went off like small bombs, lighting an amazing tableau.

Several hundred police kept the mob back. The dock was packed with friends and relatives, along with officials, ambulances, and the press. Reporters and photographers swarmed everywhere, six deep at the foot of the gangways, lining the tops of cars and trucks. They jostled to get close to the survivors, tugging on them as they passed and shouting over each other to ask questions.

John had his arm around Rose as they walked with a group of steerage passengers. An immigration officer asked his name as they disembarked the gangway.

“Tyler,” he said at once, and the officer scribbled the name down. Rose looked up at John in surprise and he smiled down at her. “John Tyler. And this is my wife, Rose.”

The officer pointed them toward a holding area for processing. As they walked forward, the boom of a photographer’s magnesium flash caused them to flinch, the glare was blinding. Two men burst through the cordon, running to embrace an older woman, who cried out with joy. The reporters converged on the emotional scene and more flashes exploded.

John and Rose looked at each other and grinned. He held out his hand, wiggling his fingers slightly. She took it.

“Run!”

They slipped through the crowd during the disturbance, darting through the scrambling people. None stopped them in all the confusion.

* * *

It was approaching midnight as they sat on a rooftop, looking out at the lights of the city, the Statue of Liberty, and the black of the sea beyond. Stars shone down on them once again. Their hands were entwined between them.

“So,” said Rose, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Your wife, then?”

“Near enough,” he said, his ears turning a bit pink. “That is, if you’ll have me.”

She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Daft man. Of course, I will.”

He smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “We’ll make it legal once we earn enough money for it. After all, you’ve got to make an honest man of me.” She laughed as he reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Think I could get a wedding ring made out of this?” he asked, pulling out the watch with the Heart of the Tardis diamond.

Rose gasped, staring at it for a moment, then looked up at him, her face serious. “No, it’s much too big. If I’m ever caught on a sinking ship again, I’ll get pulled right to the bottom!” She gave him a tongue-touched grin.

He chuckled. “I know, it’s a miracle I survived! Well, perhaps I could get someone to chip off a chunk of it.”

“Oh, but it’s such a pretty shape,” said Rose, taking it from him and holding it in her hand. She depressed the latch and the cover swung open. Predictably, the watch had stopped. “Well, it’s a wash as a watch, literally. No timepiece could survive the dip it took.” She closed the cover with a snap and looked at the heart-shaped diamond. “Hmm… Reckon it might make a nice necklace.”

* * *

_Eighty Some-Odd Years Later_

John sat at a folding table, covered with various metal bits and bobs and pieces of machinery. Whether he was in the process of dismantling something or putting it together was impossible to say. A large set of magnifying goggles were on his face, a headlamp on his forehead. His hands were gnarled and age spotted, but still surprisingly strong and supple as he delicately maneuvered a tiny screwdriver.

In the room around him was the clutter of a lifetime, half of it bizarre inventions, some working, some in the process of being built, the other half of it, artistic ceramics, figurines, the walls crammed with drawings and paintings.

Shelves held numerous photographs in standing frames… John and Rose standing at the Pacific ocean, looking radiantly happy. Rose in a long white gown and John in a tuxedo on their wedding day. The two of them standing beneath John’s new shop with a sign that read ‘Doctor Fix-It.’ John leaning against the hood of his first car, looking rather chuffed. The two of them on a beach, around 1920, with Rose wearing pants and sitting astride a horse, laughing, John on another horse beside her, acting overly scandalized by her attire, the Santa Monica pier with its roller coaster in the background behind them. Rose looking exhausted but happy, holding a tiny baby. John and Rose standing on either side of their son at his college graduation. Rose holding their grandchild, John with his arms around her. Every picture was a tribute to a life well-spent.

John lifted his head as something on the television playing in the background caught his attention. He pulled the goggles down and put on his regular, rectangular specs, framing deep brown eyes that were still as alive and bright as those of a young man. He grabbed the remote from the corner of his tinkering table and turned up the volume.

The BBC was broadcasting satellite coverage of an expedition in the middle of the Atlantic, a Russian research ship was recovering items from the _Titanic_. The video camera panned off of the young man who was talking about the salvage down to a tray of water. John’s mouth dropped open in amazement.

“Rose?” he called, then raised his voice higher in urgency. “Rooooose!”

An old woman emerged from an adjacent room, her face wrinkled and her hair white, but her smile was as youthful as ever. She carried a paintbrush and her worn denim overalls were spattered with paint from countless works of art.

“What is it, love?” she asked.

John pointed at the news coverage. “I’m on telly!” he exclaimed. “I’m _naked_ on telly!”

Rose goggled at the image that filled the frame of the television. “Oh, blimey! It’s that drawing I did of you!” She bit her lower lip as she looked at it, memories coming back. “Oooh… Miss that hair,” she purred, gently stroking her husband’s bald pate.

He glared at her, running a hand over his head in a gesture that never went away, even when the hair did. Using the table for leverage, he got to his feet. “We are going down to the BBC,” he said, resolutely. “And they are going to get us in contact with those people.”

“Does this mean we’re finally going to tell someone who saved the extra two hundred people?”

John pulled a face, making his wrinkles stand out even more. No one had ever been able to say for certain who it was who’d put together the pontoon raft, and he rather liked it that way. The only notoriety he wanted was from the ‘Doctor’s’ inventions. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“All right,” she said lifting a hand in acquiescence, moving to get the phone from its cradle. “I’ll call our son and see if they can drive us there.”

“God, I hope Donna’s not watching this… Have they no sense of decency?” he asked, buttoning his cardigan. “Not even a censorship bar! Or one of those…” He wiggled a finger at the television. “...blurry things.”

“It’s _art_ ,” said Rose, the phone already at her ear. “Art-y things don’t need those. Besides,” she added, smiling cheekily, “I don’t know why you’re complaining. You are _quite_ impressive.”

He grinned at her, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Hello, Rory?” Rose said into the phone. “It’s mum. Are you and Amy busy today?... Well, your dad and I are having… an unusual emergency.”


End file.
